>« 


,J^\  • 


;iTY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
LOS  ANGELES 


1 


Ml'- 


MEN,  WOMEN,  AND  BOOKS ; 


A    SELECTION    OF 

SKETCHES,  ESSAYS,  AND  CRITICAL  MEMOIRS, 

FROM    HIS 

UNCOLLECTED  PROSE   WRITINGS. 


BY 

LEIGH     HUNT. 


IN  TWO  VOLUMES. 
VOL.  I. 


'  •    •  •  •     •        .'.  *■""■      '  '      ',  .{"■'••••*-•»••• 


•      •       • 


NEW    YORK:      ' " 


n  o 


HARPER    ..t     D  R  O  T  II  E  R  S,    P  U  R  L  I  S  11  E  R  S, 

y  V.  A  -N  K  L  I N    s  Q  V  A  r.  i:. 

18  73. 


«.  V  «■   ■«.< 


%    t.  % 


*  1  1    •  •  .       * 


i  *  ^  *     *    <  « , 


L\, 


M5g, 

l/.l 


Jj  PREFACE. 


(D 


■g_      For  the  power  to  make  the  greater  part  of  this 

O  selection  from  his  prose  writings,  the  Author  has  to 

=  thank  the  proprietors  of  the  Edinburgh  and   West- 

u  minster  Reviews,  of  the  New  Monthly  Magazine,  of 

Tait,   and   Ainsworth,  and   the  Monthly   Chronicle. 

'i  The  courtesy  which  he  experienced  from  all  these 

gentlemen,  and   the  instant  cordiality  of  those  with 

whom  he  was   best   acquainted,  merit   his  warmest 

^   acknowledgments. 

He  has  little  to  add,  except  that  he  has  taken  the 
opportunity  of  making  a  few  corrections  ;  and  that 
he  hopes  the  sincerity  with  which  he  writes  every- 
thing, grave  or  gay,  will  procure  him  the  usual  indul- 
gence for  the  defects  that  remain. 

The  title  of  the  book,  though  a  peculiar,  is  not  a 
forced  one.  The  reader  will  see  that  "Women," 
upon  their  own  grounds,  form  an  essential  portion  of 
its  contents  ;  and  the  word  suggested  itself  as  soon  as 
the  book  was  thought  of  The  name  of  the  heroine 
might  almost  as  well    have  been  omitted,  when  the 

29890.'? 


IV  PREFACE. 

critic  was  giving  an  account  of  the  history  of  "  An- 
gelica and  Medoro."  « 

Should  anything  else  in  the  impulsive  portions  of 
those  essays,  w^hich  v^^ere  written  when  he  was  young, 
appear  a  little  out  of  the  pale  of  recognized  manners, 
m  point  of  style  and  animal  spirits,  the  new  reader 
will  be  good  enough  to  understand,  what  old  ones 
have  long  been  aware  of,  and  grown  kind  to, — namely, 
that  the  writer  comes  of  a  tropical  race ;  and  that 
what  might  have  been  affectation  in  a  colder  blood, 
was  only  enthusiasm  in  a  warm  one.  He  is  not  con- 
scious, however,  of  having  suffered  anything  to  re- 
main, to  which  a  reasonable  ci'itic  could  object.  He 
has  pruned  a  few  passages,  in  order  that  he  might 
not  seem  to  take  undue  advantage  of  an  extempore  or 
anonymous  allowance  ;  and  in  later  years,  particularly 
when  seated  on  the  critical  bench,  he  has  been  pleased, 
and  perhaps  profited,  in  conforming  himself  to  the 
customs  of  "the  court."  But  had  he  attempted  to 
alter  the  general  spirit  of  his  writings,  he  would  have 
belied  the  love  of  truth  that  is  in  him,  and  even  shown 
himself  ungrateful  to  public  warrant. 

With  regard  to  the  engraved  portrait  of  himself, 
from  the  masterly  sketch  of  Mr.  Severn,  his  publish- 
ers will  allow  him  to  say,  that  it  makes  its  appearance 
only  in  compliance  with  their  urgent  wishes.  The 
period  of  life  at  which  it  was  taken,  corresponds  w^ith 
that  of  the  greater  part  of  the  volume.  A  work  of  a 
staider  nature  is  in  preparation,  a  contemporary  por- 


m 


PREFACE.  V 

trait  in  which  will  duly  present  the  Author  as  the 
battered  senior  which  he  is.  Meantime,  if  the  collec- 
tion of  articles  now  published  shall  be  found  to  con- 
tain a  less  amount  of  gravity  or  reflection  than  may 
have  been  looked  for  from  a  man  of  his  years,  he 
hopes  that  the  comparatively  youthful  face  at  the  be- 
ginning of  it  may  help  to  excuse  the  deficiency. 

Not  that  he  has  abated  a  jot  of  those  cheerful  and 
hopeful  opinions,  in  the  diffusion  of  which  he  has  now 
been  occupied  for  nearly  thirty  years  of  a  life  passed 
in  combined  struggle  and  studiousness  :  for  if  there  is 
anything  which  consoles  him  for  those  short-comings 
either  in  life  or  writings,  which  most  men  of  any 
decent  powers  of  reflection  are  bound  to  discover  in 
themselves  as  they  grow  old,  and  of  which  he  has  ac- 
quired an  abundant  perception,  it  is  the  consciousness, 
not  merely  of  having  been  consistent  in  opinion  (which 
might  have  been  bigotry),  or  of  having  lived  to  see 
his  political  opinions  triumph  (which  was  good  luck), 
or  even  of  having  outlived  misconstruction  and  enmitv 
(though  the  goodwill  of  generous  enemies  is  inexpres- 
sibly dear  to  him),  but  of  having  done  his  best  to 
recommend  that  belief  in  good,  that  cheerfulness  in 
endeavor,  that  discernment  of  universal  beauty,  that 
brotherly  consideration  for  mistake  and  circumstance, 
and  that  repose  on  ihe  happy  destiny  of  the  whole 
human  race,  which  appear  to  him  not  only  the  health- 
iest and  most  animating  principles  of  action,  but  the 
only  truly  religious  homage  to  Him  that  made  us  all. 

VOL.    I.  1 


VI  PREFACE. 

Let  adversity  be  allowed  the  comfort  of  these  re- 
flections ,  and  may  all  who  allow  them,  experience 
the  writer's  cheerfulness,  with  none  of  the  troubles 
that  have  rendered  it  almost  his  only  possession. 

Kensington, 

Mmj  1st,  1847. 


CONTENTS. 


FICTION  AND  MATTER  OF  FACT. 

Sympathies  of  these  two  supposed  incompatible  things. — Mistake  of 
Newton. — Poets  not  liable  to  such  mistakes. — False  Alarm  about 
Science  becoming  the  ruin  of  Poetry. — Imagination  not  to  be  limited 
by  second  causes. — Apologue  on  the  Press.  .        .    page  7 

II. 

THE  INSIDE  OF   AN   OMNIBUS. 

Elevation  of  society  by  this  species  of  vehicle. — Metamorphosis  of  Dr. 
Johnson  into  an  Omnibu.s. — His  dialogue  thereon  with  Boswell. — 
Various  passengers  in  Omnibuses. — Intense  intimacy  with  the  face 
of  the  man  opposite  you. — Boys  and  young  ladies. — Old  gentlemen 
unable  to  pull  up  the  glass. — Young  gentlemen  embarrassed  with 
eating  an  orange. — Exhibition  of  characters  and  tempers. — Ladies 
obliged  to  sit  on  gentlemen's  laps. — Last  passengers  at  night.  .     IG 

III. 

THE   DAY   OF   THE   DISASTERS   OF   CARFINGTON 
BLUNDELL,  ESQ.UIRE. 

Descripton  of  a  penurious  independent  gentleman,  fbnd  of  invitations 
and  the  great. — He  takes  his  way  to  a  '-dining  out.'' — His  calamities 
on  the  road. — And  on  his  return 31 

IV. 

A  VISIT  TO   THE   ZOOLOGICAL   GARDENS. 

The  collection  there  at  the  time  of  the  visit. — A  tiger  broke  loose. — 
Mild  anthropophagy  of  the  bear. — The  elephant  the  Dr.  Johnson 
of  animals. — Giraffes. — Monkeys. — Parrots. —  Eagles. —  Mj-steries 
of  animal  thought. — Is  it  just  in  human  beings  to  make  prisons  of 
thi'*  kind. 56 


Vlll  CONTENTS. 

V, 
A  MAN   INTRODUCED   TO   HIS   ANCESTORS. 

Astonishing  amount  of  a  man's  ancestors  at  the  twentieth  remove. — 
The  variety  of  ranks  as  great  as  the  multitude. — Bodily  and  men, 
tal  characteristics  inherited. — What  it  becomes  a  man  to  consider  as 
the  result page  82 

VI. 

A  NOVEL  PARTY. 

Spiritual  creations  more  real  than  corporeal. — A  party  composed  of 
the  heroes  and  heroines  of  novels. — Mr.  Moses  Primrose,  who  has 
resolved  not  to  be  cheated,  is  delighted  with  some  information  given 
him  by  Mr.  Peregrine  Pickle. — Conversation  of  the  author  with  the 
celebrated  Pamela. — Arrivals  of  the  rest  of  the  company. — The 
party  found  to  consist  of  four  smaller  parties. — Characters  of  them_ 
— Character  of  Mr.  Abi-aham  Adams. — Pamela's  distress  at  her 
brother's  want  of  breeding. — Settlement  together  of  Lovelace  and 
Clarissa. — Desmond's  Wavcrly  asks  after  the  Antiquary's  Waverly. 
— His  surprise  at  the  coincidence  of  the  adventure  on  the  sea-shore. 
— Misunderstanding  between  Mrs.  Slipslop  and  Mrs.  Clinker. — 
The  ladies  criticised  while  putting  on  their  cloaks.  .         .    S7 

VII. 

BEDS  AND   BEDROOMS. 

Intrinsical  nature  of  bed. — Advantage  of  people  in  bed  oyer  people 
that  are  "up." — Dialogue  with  a  person  "up." — Feather-beds,  cur- 
tains, &c. — Idea  of  a  perfect  bedroom. — Custom  half  the  secret  of 
content. — Bedroom  in  a  cottage. — Bed  at  sea. — Beds  in  presses  and 
alcoves. — Anecdotes  of  beds. — The  bed  of  Morpheus  in  Spenser.  102 

VIII. 

THE  WORLD   OF   BOOKS. 

DifiBculty  of  proving  that  a  man  is  not  actually  in  a  distant  place,  by 
dint  of  being  there  in  imagination. — Visit  of  that  kind  to  Scotland. 
— Suggestion  of  a  Book-Geography ;  of  Maps  in  which  none  but 
poetical  or  otherwise  intellectually-associated  places  are  set  down. 
— Scottish,  English,  French,  and  Italian  items  for  such  maps. — Lo- 
cal literizations  of  Rousseau  and  Wordsworth  objected. — Actual 
enrichment  of  the  commonest  places  by  intellectual  associations.  115 

IX. 
JACK  ABBOTT'S   BREAKFAST. 
Animal  spirits. — A  Dominie  Sampson  drawn  from  the  life. — Many 


CONTENTS.  IX 

things  fall  out  between  the  (breakfast)  cup  and  the  lip. — A  magis- 
trate drawn  from  the  life. — Is  breakfast  ever  to  be  taken,  or  is  it 
not  ? — The  question  answered page  126 


ON  SEEING  A  PIGEON  MAKE   LOVE. 

French  intermixture  of  prose  and  verse. — Courtship  of  pigeons. — A 
word  in  pity  for  rakes. — Story  of  one  baffled. — Instinctive  sameness 
of  the  conduct  of  the  lower  animals  questioned. — Pope's  opinion 
respecting  instinct  and  reason. — Human  Improvability. — Fitness  of 
some  of  the  lower  animals  for  going  to  heaven  not  less  conceivable 
than  that  of  some  others. — Doves  at  JNIaiano. — Ovid's  Bird  Elys 
ium.         ....  155 

XI. 

THE  MONTH  OF  MAY. 

Might  not  the  May-holidays  be  restored  ? — Melancholy  remnant  of 
them. — Recollections  of  a  May -morning  in  Italy.         .         .         168 

XII. 

THE  GIULI   TRE. 

Specimen  of  sonnets  written  on  this  subject  by  the  Abate  Cast!.     177 

XIII. 

A  FEW   REMARKS    ON   THE   RARE   VICE  CALLED 

LYING. 

Impossibility  of  finding  a  liar  in  England. — Lying,  nevertheless,  al- 
lowed and  organized  as  a  mutual  accommodation,  except  in  the  case 
of  voters  at  elections. — Reason  of  this,  a  wish  to  have  all  the  lies  on 
one  side. — The  right  of  lying  arrogated  by  the  rich  as  a  privilege. 
— Vindication,  nevertheless,  of  the  rich  as  human  beings. — Social 
root  of  apparently  unsocial  feelings. — Conventional  liars  not  liars 
out  of  the  pale  of  conventionality. — Falsehood  sometimes  told  for 
the  sake  of  truth  and  good. — Final  appeal  to  the  consciences  of 
anti-ballotmen 1S8 

XIV. 
CRITICISM   ON  FEMALE   BEAUTY. 

I. HAIR,  FOREHEAD. 

Fault-finding  of  the  old  style  of  criticism  ridiculed. — Painting  with 
the  pen. — Ugliness  of  beauty  without  feeling. — The  hand  of  the 
poisoner. — Hair. — Under  what  circumstances  it  is  allowable  to  use 
artificial  helps  to  beauty. — Red  and  golden  hair. — Hair  of  Lucretia 
Borgia. — Forehead 193 


X  CONTENTS. 

XV. 
CRITICISM  ON  FEMALE   BEAUTY. 

II. EYES,  EYEBROWS,  NOSE. 

Eyes. — Eyebrows. — Frowning  without  frowning. — Eyebrows  meet- 
ing.— Shape  of  head,  face,  ears,  cheeks,  and  ear-rings. — Nose. — A 
perplexity  to  the  critics. — Question  of  aquiline  noses. — Angels 
never  painted  with  them page  213 

XVI, 
CRITICISM  ON   FEMALE  BEAUTY. 

III. MOUTH,  CHIN,  TEETH,  BOSOM. 

Mouth  and  chin. — Mouth  the  part  of  the  face  the  least  able  to  con- 
ceal the  expression  of  temper,  &c. — Handsome  smiles  in  plain  faces. 
— Teeth. — Dimples. — Neck  and  shoulders. — Perfection  of  shape. 
— Bosom. — Caution  against  the  misconstruction  of  the  coarse- 
minded .226 

XVII, 
CRITICISM   ON  FEMALE  BEAUTY. 

IV. HAND,  ARM,  WALK,  VOICE. 

Hand  and  arm. — Italian  epithet  "  Morbida." — Figure. — Carriage,  &c 
— Perils  of  fashion. — Vice  of  tight-lacing. — Hips. — Legs  and  feet 
— Walk. — Carriage  of  Roman  and  Italian  women. — That  of  Eng- 
lish preferred. — Voice  ditto. — Reason  why  the  most  beautiful  wo- 
men are  in  general  not  the  most  charming 237 

XVIII. 
OF  STATESMEN  WHO  HAVE  WRITTEN  VERSES. 
tTniversality  of  Poetry,  and  consequent  good  effect  of  a  taste  for  it. 
— The  greater  the  statesman,  the  more  universal  his  mind. — Al- 
most all  great  British  Statesmen  have  written  verses. — Specimen 
of  verses  by  Wyatt,  by  Essex,  by  Sackville,  Raleigh,  Marvell,  Pe- 
terborough, and  Lord  Holland.       ...  .  248 

XIX. 

FEMALE  SOVEREIGNS  OF  ENGLAND. 

Real  character  of  lady  Jane  Grey. — Excuses  for  "  Bloody  Mary." — 
Elizabeth,  when  young. — Anne  and  the  Dutchess  of  Marlborough. 
— Accession  of  her  present  Majesty 263 


xlEN,    WOMEN,    AND    BOOKS. 


FICTION  AND  MATTER  OF  FACT. 


"There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy." 

Shakspeare. 


Sympathies  of  these  two  supposed  incompatible  things. — Mistake  of  Newton. 
— Poets  not  liable  to  such  mistakes. — False  alarm  about  Science  becorw- 
ing  the  ruin  of  Poetry. — Imagination  not  to  be  limited  by  second  causes, 
-Apologue  on  the  Press. 

A  PASSION  for  these  two  things  is  supposed  to  be 
incompatible.  It  is  certainly  not ;  and  the  supposition 
is  founded  on  an  ignorance  of  tlie  nature  of  the  human 
mind,  and  the  very  sympathies  of  the  two  strangers. 
Mathematical  truth  is  not  the  only  truth  in  the  world. 
An  unpoetical  logician  is  not  the  only  philosopher. 
Locke  had  no  taste  for  fiction ;  he  thought  Blackmore 
as  great  a  genius  as  Homer  ;  but  this  was  a  conclusion 
he  could  never  have  come  to,  if  he  had  known  his  pre- 
mises. Newton  considered  poetry  as  on  a  par  with 
"ingenious  nonsense;"  which  was  an  error  as  great 
as  if  he  had  ranked  himself  with  Tom  D'Urfey,  oi 
made  the  apex  of  a  triangle  equal  to  the  base  of  it. 


8  FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT. 

Newton  has  had  good  for  evil  returned  him  by  "  a 
greater  than  himself;"  for  the  eye  of  imagination  sees 
farther  than  the  glasses  of  astronomy.     I  should  say 
that   the  poets  had  praised  their  scorner  too  much, 
illustrious  as  he  is,  if  it  were  not  delightful  to  see  that 
there  is  at  least  one  faculty  in  the  world  which  knows 
how  to  do  justice  to  all  the  rest.     Of  all  the  universal 
privileges  of  poetry,  this  is  one  of  the  most  peculiar, 
and  marks  her  for  what  she  is.     The  mathematician, 
the  schoolman,  the  wit,  the  statesman,  and  the  soldier, 
may  all  be  blind  to  the  merits  of  poetry,  and  of  one 
another  ;   but  the  poet,  by  the  privilege  which  he  pos- 
sesses of  recognizing  every  species  of  truth,  is  aware 
of  the  merits  of  mathematics,  of  learning,  of  wit,  of 
politics,  and  of  generalship.     He  is  great  in  his  own 
art,  and  he  is  great  in  his  appreciation  of  that  of  others. 
And  this  is  most  remarkable  in  proportion  as  he  is  a 
poetical  poet — a  high  lover  of  fiction.     Milton  brought 
the  visible  and  invisible  together  "  on  the  top  of  Fie- 
sole,"  to  pay  homage  to  Galileo ;  and  the  Tuscan  de- 
served it,  for  he  had    an  insight  into  the    world  of 
imagination.    I  cannot  but  fancy  the  shade  of  Newton 
blushing  to  reflect  that,  among  the  many  things  which 
he  professed  to  know  not,  poetry  was  omitted,  of  which 
he  knew  nothing.     Great  as  he  was,  he  indeed  saw 
nothing  in  the  face  of  nature  but  its  lines  and  colors ; 
not  the  lines  and  colors  of  passion  and  sentiment  in- 
cluded, but  only  squares  and  their  distances,  and  the 
anatomy  of  the  rainbow.     He  thought  the  earth  a  glo- 
rious planet ;  he  knew  it  better  than  any  one  else,  in  its 
connection  w'ith  other  planets  ;  and  yet  half  the  beauty 
of  them  all,  that  which  sympathy  bestows  and  imagina- 
tion colors,  w^as  to  him  a  blank.     He  took  space  to  be 
the  sensorium  of  the  Deity,  (so  noble  a  fancy  could  be 


FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT.  9 

struck  out  of  the  involuntary  encounter  between  his 
intense  sense  of  a  mystery  and  the  imagination  he 
despised !)  and  yet  this  very  fancy  was  but  an  escape 
from  the  horror  of  a  vacuum,  and  a  substitution  of  the 
mere  consciousness  of  existence  for  the  thoughts  and 
images  with  which  a  poet  would  have  accompanied  it. 
He  imagined  the  form  of  the  house,  and  the  presence 
of  the  builder ;  but  the  life  and  the  variety,  the  paint- 
ings, the  imagery,  and  the  music — the  loves  and  the 
joys,  the  whole  riches  of  the  place,  the  whole  riches 
in  the  distance,  the  creations  heaped  upon  creation, 
and  the  particular  as  well  as  aggregate  consciousness 
of  all  this  in  the  great  mind  of  whose  presence  he  was 
conscious — to  all  this  his  want  of  imagination  rendered 
him  insensible.  The  Fairy  Queen  was  to  him  a  trifle; 
the  dreams  of  Shakspeare  "  ingenious  nonsense."  But 
courts  were  something,  and  so  were  the  fashions  there. 
When  the  name  of  the  Deity  was  mentioned,  he  took 
oft'  his  hat  !* 

There  are  two  worlds  ;  the  world  that  we  can  mea- 
sure with  line  and  rule,  and  the  world  that  we  feel 
with  our  hearts  and  imaginations.  To  be  sensible  of 
the  truth  of  only  one  of  these,  is  to  know  truth  but  by 
halves.  Milton  said,  that  he  "  dared  be  known  to  think 
Spenser  a  better  teacher  than  Scotus  or  Aquinas  ;"  he 

*  Sir  Isaac  Newton  rejected  the  doctrine  of  the  Trinity,  because  he 
could  not  reconcile  it  to  his  arithmetic.  The  "  French  Prophets,"  not 
being  cognizable  by  the  mathematics,  were  very  near  having  him  for  a 
proselyte.  His  strength  and  his  weakness  were  hardly  equal  in  this 
distinction :  but  one  of  them,  at  least,  serves  to  show  how  more  than 
conventional  his  understanding  was  inclined  to  be,  when  taken  out  of 
its  only  faculty  ;  and  I  do  not  presume  to  think  that  any  criticism  of 
mine  can  be  thought  even  invidious  against  it.  I  do  not  deny  the  sun, 
because  I  deny  that  the  sun  has  a  riglit  to  deny  the  universe.  I  am  wri- 
ting upon  Matter  of  Fact  now  inysclt"  and  Matter  of  Fact  will  have  mc 
say  what  I  do. 

1* 


10  FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT. 

did  not  say  than  Plato  or  Pythagoras,  who  understood 
the  two  spheres  within  our  reach.  Both  of  these,  and 
Milton  himself,  were  as  great  lovers  of  physical  and 
political  truth  as  any  men ;  but  they  knew  that  it  was 
not  all ;  they  felt  much  beyond,  and  they  made  experi- 
ments upon  more.  It  is  doubted  by  the  critics,  whe- 
ther Chaucer's  delight  in  the  handling  of  fictions,  or  in 
the  detection  and  scrutiny  of  a  piece  of  truth,  was  the 
greater.  Chaucer  was  a  conscientious  Reformer,  which 
is  a  man  who  has  a  passion  for  truth  ;  and  so  was 
Milton.  So  in  his  way  was  Ariosto  himself,  and  indeed 
most  great  poets ;  part  of  the  very  perfection  of  their 
art,  which  is  veri-similitude,  being  closely  connected 
with  their  sense  of  truth  in  all  things.  But  it  is  not 
necessary  to  be  great,  in  order  to  possess  a  reasonable 
variety  of  perception.  That  nobody  may  despair  of 
being  able  to  indulge  the  two  passions  together,  I  can 
answer  for  them  by  my  own  experience.  I  can  pass, 
with  as  much  pleasure  as  ever,  from  the  reading  of  one 
of  Hume's  Essays  to  that  of  the  Arabian  Nights,  and 
vice  versa ;  and  1  think,  the  longer  I  live,  the  closer, 
if  possible,  will  the  union  grow.*  The  roads  are  found 
to  approach  nearer,  in  proportion  as  we  advance  upon 
either  ;  and  they  both  terminate  in  the  same  prospect. 
I  am  far  from  meaning  that  there  is  nothing  real  in 
either  road.  The  path  of  matter  of  fact  is  as  solid  as 
ever  •,  but  they  who  do  not  see  the  reality  of  the  other, 
keep  but  a  blind  and  prone  beating   upon  their  own 

*  It  has  done  so.  This  Essay  was  written  in  the  year  1824 ;  and 
within  the  last  few  years  I  have  had  the  pleasure  of  reading  (besides 
poets)  three  different  histories  of  Philosophy,  histories  of  Rome  and 
England,  some  of  the  philosophy  of  Hume  himself,  much  of  Abraham 
Tucker's,  all  the  novels  of  Fielding  and  Smollett  (including  Gil  Bias,) 
Mr.  Lane's  Arabian  Nights,  Don  Quixote,  a  heap  of  English  Memoirs, 
and  the  whole  of  the  romances  of  Mrs.  Radcliffe. 


FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT.  11 

surface.  To  drop  the  metaphor,  matter  of  fact  is  our 
perception  of  the  grosser  and  more  external  shapes  of 
truth  ;  fiction  represents  the  residuum  and  the  mystery. 
To  love  matter  of  fact  is  to  have  a  Hvely  sense  of  the 
visible  and  immediate ;  to  love  fiction  is  to  have  as 
lively  a  sense  of  the  possible  and  the  remote.  Now 
these  tvs^o  senses,  if  they  exist  at  all,  are  of  necessity 
as  real,  the  one  as  the  other.  The  only  proof  of  either 
is  in  our  perception.  To  a  blind  man,  the  most  visible 
colors  no  more  exist,  than  the  hues  of  a  fairy  tale  to  a 
man  destitute  of  fancy.  To  a  man  of  fancy,  who 
sheds  tears  over  a  tale,  the  chair  in  which  he  sits  has 
no  truer  existence  in  its  way,  than  the  story  that  moves 
him.     His  being  touched  is  his  proof  in  both  instances. 

But,  says  the  mechanical  understanding,  modern 
discoveries  have  acquainted  us  with  the  cause  of 
lightning  and  thunder,  of  the  nature  of  optical  delu- 
sions, and  fifty  other  apparent  wonders;  and  there- 
fore there  is  no  more  to  be  feigned  about  them. 
Fancy  has  done  with  them,  at  least  with  their  causes  ; 
and  witches  and  will-o'-the-wisps  being  abolished, 
poetry  is  at  a  stand.  The  strong  glass  of  science  has 
put  an  end  to  the  assumptions  of  fiction. 

This  is  a  favorite  remark  with  a  pretty  numerous 
set  of  writers  ;  and  it  is  a  very  desperate  one.  It 
looks  like  reasoning;  and  by  a  singular  exercise  of  the 
very  faculty  which  it  asserts  the  death  of,  many  per- 
sons take  the  look  of  an  argument  for  the  proof  of  it. 
Certainly,  no  observation  can  mihtate  more  strongly 
against  existing  matter  of  fact ;  and  this  is  the  reason 
why  it  is  made.  The  mechanical  writers  of  verse 
find  tiiat  it  is  no  longer  so  easy  to  be  taken  for  poets, 
because  fancy  and  imagination  are  more  than  usually 


12  FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT. 

in  request :  so  they  would  have  their  revenge,  by  as- 
serting, that  poetry  is  no  longer  to  be  written. 

When  an  understanding  of  this  description  is  told, 
that  thunder  is  caused  by  a  collision  of  clouds,  and 
that  lightning   is   a  well-known   result  of  electricity, 
there  may  be  an  end,  if  he  pleases,  of  his  poetry  with 
him.     He  may,  if  he  thinks  fit,  or  if  he  cannot  help  it, 
no  longer  see  anything  in  the  lightning  but  the  escape 
of  a  subtile  fluid,  or  hear  anything  more  noble  in  the 
thunder  than  the  crack  of  a  bladder  of  water.     Much 
good  may  his  ignorance  do  him.     But  it  is  not  so  with 
understandings  of  a  loftier  or  a  more  popular  kind. 
The  wonder  of  children,  and  the  lofty  speculations  of 
the  wise,  meet  alike  on  a  point,  higher  than  he  .can 
attain  to,  and  look  over  the  threshold  of  the  world. 
Mechanical  knowledge  is  a  great  and  a  glorious  tool 
in  the  hands  of  man,  and  will  change  the  globe.     But 
it  will  still  leave  untouched  the  invisible  sphere  above 
and  about  us  ;  still  leave  us  all  the  great  and  all  the 
gentle  objects  of  poetry, — the  heavens  and  the  human 
heart,  the  regions  of  genii  and  fairies,  the  fanciful  or 
passionate  images  that  come  to  us  from  the  seas,  and 
from' the  flowers,  and  all  that  we  behold. 

It  is,  in  fact,  remarkable,  that  the  growth  of  science, 
and  the  reappearance  of  a  more  poetical  kind  of 
poetry,  have  accompanied  one  another.  Whatever 
may  be  the  difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  extent  to 
which  our  modern  poets  have  carried  their  success, 
their  inclinations  cannot  be  doubted.  How  is  it,  that 
poetical  impulse  has  taken  this  turn  in  a  generation 
pronounced  to  be  so  mechanical  ?  Whence  has  arisen 
among  us  this  exceeding  fondness  for  the  fictions  of 
the  East,  for  solitary  and  fanciful  reveries,  for  the  wild 
taste  of  the  Germans,  (themselves  more  scientific  and 


FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT.  13 

wild  than  ever,)  and  even  for  a  new  and  more  primi- 
tive use  of  the  old  Pagan  mythology,  so  long  and  so 
mechanically  abused  by  the  Chloes  and  Venuses  of  the 
French?  Politics  may  be  thought  a  very  unlikely 
cause  for  poetry,  and  it  is  so  with  mere  politicians ; 
yet  politics,  pushed  farther  than  common,  have  been 
the  cause  of  the  new  and  greater  impetus  given  to  the 
sympathies  of  imagination ;  for  the  more  we  know  of 
any  one  ground  of  knowledge,  the  farther  we  see  into 
the  general  domains  of  intellect,  if  we  are  not  mere 
slaves  of  the  soil.  A  little  philosophy,  says  Bacon, 
takes  men  away  from  religion ;  a  greater  brings  them 
round  to  it.  This  is  the  case  with  the  reasoning 
faculty  and  poetry.  We  reason  to  a  certain  point, 
and  are  content  with  the  discoveries  of  second  causes. 
We  reason  farther,  and  find  ourselves  in  the  same  airy 
depths  as  of  old.  The  imagination  recognizes  its 
ancient  field,  and  begins  ranging  about  at  will,  doubly 
bent  upon  liberty,  because  of  the  trammels  with  which 
it  has  been  threatened. 

Take  the  following  Apologue. — During  a  wonder- 
ful period  of  the  world,  the  kings  of  the  earth  leagued 
themselves  together  to  destroy  all  opposition  ;  to  root 
out,  if  they  could,  the  very  thoughts  of  mankind.  In- 
t^uisition  was  made  for  blood.  The  ears  of  the  grov- 
elling lay  in  wait  for  every  murmur.  On  a  sudden, 
during  this  great  hour  of  danger,  there  arose  in  a 
hundred  parts  of  the  world,  a  cry,  to  which  the  cry 
of  the  Blatant  Beast  was  a  whisper.  It  proceeded 
from  the  wonderful  multiplication  of  an  extraordinary 
creature,  which  had  already  turned  the  cheeks  of  the 
tyrants  pallid.  It  groaned  and  it  grew  loud  :  it  spoke 
with  a  hundred  tongues ;  it  grew  fervidly  on  the  ear, 
like  the  noise  of  millions  of  wheels.     And  the  sound 


14  FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT. 

of  millions  of  wheels  was  in  it,  together  with  other 
marvellous  and  awful  noises.  There  was  the  sharpen- 
ing of  swords,  the  braying  of  trumpets,  the  neighing 
of  war-horses,  the  laughter  of  solemn  voices,  the  rush- 
ing by  of  lights,  the  movement  of  impatient  feet,  a 
tread  as  if  the  world  were  coming.  And  ever  and 
anon  there  were  pauses  with  "  a  still  small  voice," 
which  made  a  trembling  in  the  night  time.  But  still 
the  glowing  sound  of  the  wheels  renewed  itself; 
gathering  early  towards  the  morning.  And  when  you 
came  up  to  one  of  these  creatures,  you  saw,  with  fear 
and  reverence,  its  mighty  conformation,  being  like 
wheels  indeed,  and  a  great  vapor.  And  ever  and 
anon  the  vapor  boiled,  and  the  wheels  went  rolling, 
and  the  creature  threw  out  of  its  mouth  visible  words, 
that  fell  into  the  air  by  millions,  and  spoke  to  the  utter- 
most parts  of  the  earth.  And  the  nations  (for  it  was 
a  loving  though  a  fearful  creature,)  fed  upon  its  words 
like  the  air  they  breathed :  and  the  monarchs  paused, 
for  thev  knew  their  masters. 

This  is  Printing  by  Steam. — It  will  be  said  that  it  is 
an  allegory,  and  that  all  allegories  are  but  fictions, 
and  flat  ones.  I  am  far  from  producing  it  as  a  specimen 
of  the  poetical  power  now  in  existence.  Allegory  it- 
self is  out  of  fashion,  though  it  was  a  favorite  exercise 
of  our  old  poets,  when  the  public  were  familiar  with 
shows  and  spectacles.  But  allegory  is  the  i-eadiest 
shape  into  which  imagination  can  turn  a  thing  mechan- 
ical ;  and  in  the  one  before  us  is  contained  the  me- 
chanical truth  and  the  spiritual  truth  of  that  very  mat- 
ter of  fact  thing  called  a  Printing  Press  :  each  of  them 
as  true  as  the  other,  or  neither  could  take  place.  A 
business  of  screws  and  iron  wheels  is,  or  appears  to  be, 
a  very  commonplace  matter ;  but  not  so  the  will  of 


FICTION    AND    MATTER    OF    FACT.  15 

the  hand  that  sets  them  in  motion  ;  not  so  the  opera- 
tions of  the  mind  that  directs  them  what  to  utter.  We 
are  satisfied  respecting  the  one  by  science ;  but  what 
is  it  that  renders  us  sensible  of  the  wonders  of  the 
other,  and  their  connection  with  the  great  mysteries 
of  nature  ?  Thought — Fancy — Imagination.  What 
signifies  to  her  the  talk  about  electricity,  and  suction, 
and  gravitation,  and  alembics,  and  fifty  other  mechan- 
ical operations  of  the  marvellous  ?  This  is  but  the 
bone  and  muscle  of  wonder.  Soul,  and  not  body,  is 
her  pursuit ;  the  first  cause,  not  the  second  ;  the  whole 
effect,  not  a  part  of  it ;  the  will,  the  invention,  the 
marvel  itself.  As  long  as  this  lies  hidden,  she  still 
fancies  what  agents  for  it  she  pleases.  The  science 
of  atmospherical  phenomena  hinders  not  her  angels 
from  "  playing  in  the  plighted  clouds."  The  analysis 
of  a  bottle  of  salt  water  does  not  prevent  her  from 
"  taking  the  wings  of  the  morning,  and  remaining  in  the 
uttermost  parts  of  the  sea."  You  must  prove  to  her 
first,  that  you  understand  the  simple  elements,  when 
decomposed  ;  the  reason  that  brings  them  together  ; 
the  power  that  puts  them  in  action ;  the  relations  wiiich 
they  have  to  a  thousand  things  besides  ourselves  and 
our  wants  ;  the  necessity  of  all  this  perpetual  motion  ; 
the  understanding  that  looks  out  of  the  eye  ;  love,  joy, 
sorrow,  death  and  life,  the  future,  the  universe,  the 
whole  invisible  abyss.  Till  you  know  all  this,  and  can 
plant  the  dry  sticks  of  your  reason,  as  trophies  of  pos- 
session, in  every  quarter  of  space,  how  shall  you  oust 
Iier  from  her  dominion  ? 


THE  INSIDE  OF  AN  OMNIBUS. 


Elevatwii  of  society  by  this  species  of  vehicle. — Metamorphosis  oj  Dr. 
Johnson  into  an  Omnibus. — His  dialogue  thereon  with  Boswell. —  Vari- 
ous passengers  in  Omnibuses. — Intense  intimacy  loith  the  face  of  the 
man  opposite  you. — Boys  and  yoking  ladies. — Old  gentlemeri  unable 
to  pull  up  the  glass. —  Young  gentlemen  embarrassed  with  eating  an 
orange. — Exhibition  of  characters  and  tempers. — Ladies  obliged  to  sit 
on  gentlemen's  laps. — Last  passengers  at  night. 


Enough  has  been  said,  in  this  quick  and  graphic  age, 
respecting  coachmen  and  cabmen,  and  conductors,  and 
horses,  and  all  the  exterior  phenomena  of  things  vehic- 
ular ;  but  we  are  not  aware  that  an  "  article"  has  yet 
been  devoted  to  the  subject  before  us. 

Come,  then,  our  old  friend  Truth !  do  what  thou 
canst  for  us.  If  thou  dost  not,  we  know,  that  with  all 
our  trying,  we  can  do  nothing  for  ourselves.  Men 
will  have  nothing  to  do  with  our  representations, 
though  we  paint  for  them  the  prettiest  girl  in  the 
world, — unlike  ! 

By  the  invention  of  the  Omnibus,  all  the  world  keeps 
its  coach  ! — And  with  what  cheapness  !  And  to  how 
much  social  advantage  !  No  "  plague  with  servants  ;" 
—no  expense  for  liveries  ; — no  coack-makers'  and 
horse-doctors'  bills ; — no  keeping  one's  fellow-crea- 
tures waiting  for  us  in  the  cold  night-time  and  rain, 
while  tJie  dance  is  going  down  the  room,  or  another 
hour  is  spent  in  l^dtlii^g  good-bye,  and  lingering  over 
the  comfortable  fire.     We  have  no  occasion  to  think 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS.  17 

of  it  at  all  till  we  want  it ;  and  then  it  either  comes  to 
one's  door,  or  you  go  forth,  and  in  a  few  minutes  see  it 
hulling  up  the  street, — the  man-of-war  among  coaches 
— the  whale's  back  in  the  metropolitan  flood, — while 
the  driver  is  beheld  sitting,  super-eminent,  like  the 
guide  of  the  elephant  on  his  neck. 

We  cannot  say  much  for  the  beauty  of  the  omnibus  ; 
but  there  is  a  certain  might  of  utility  in  its  very  bulk, 
which  supersedes  the  necessity  of  beauty,  as  in  the 
case  of  the  whale  itself,  or  in  the  idea  that  we  enter- 
tain of  Dr.  Johnson,  who  shouldered  porters  as  he 
went,  and  "  laughed  like  a  rhinoceros."  Virgil  meta- 
morphosed ships  into  sea-nymphs.  The  Doctor,  by  a 
process  not  more  violent,  might  be  supposed  trans- 
formed into  a  vehicle  for  his  favorite  London  streets  ; 
and,  if  so,  he  would  undoubtedly  have  anticipated  the 
date  of  the  present  invention,  and  become  an  omnibus. 
His  mouth  seems  to  utter  the  word. 

Bos  WELL  {in  Elysium).  "Sir,  if  you  were  living 
now,  and  were  to  be  turned  into  a  coach,  what  sort  of 
coach  would  you  become  ?" 

Johnson  {i-olling  about,  and  laughing  ivith  bland 
contempt).  "  Sir,  in  parliamentary  language,  you  are 
'  frivolous  and  vexatious  ;'  but  the  frivolity  surmounts 
the  vexatiousness." 

BoswELL  {tenderly).  "Nay,  sir,  but  to  oblige  an 
humble,  and,  I  hope,  not  altogether  undeserving  friend." 

Johnson.  '•  Sir,  where  reply  is  obvious,  interroga- 
tion is  disgusting.  Nay,  sir,  {seeing  the  tears  in  Bos- 
well's  eyes),  I  would  not  be  harsh  or  uncomplying ; 
but  do  you  not  see  the  case  at  once  ?  I  should  for- 
merly have  chosen  to  be  a  bishop's  carriage  perhaps, 
or  a  chancellor's,  or  any  respectable  lord's." 

BoswELL  {smiling).     "  Except  a  lord  mayor's." 


18  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

Johnson  {angrily).  "And  why,  sir,  should  I  not 
have  been  a  lord  mayor's  1  What  have  I  done,  that 
it  should  be  doubted  whether  I  would  countenance 
the  dignity  of  integrity  and  the  universality  of  com- 
merce ?" 

Bos  WELL  {in  confusion).  "  Sir,  I  beg  pardon  ;  but 
to  confess  the  truth,  I  was  thinking  of  Mr.  Wilkes." 

Johnson.  "And  why,  sir,  think  of  Mr.  Wilkes, 
when  the  smaller  idea  should  be  merged  into  the  great- 
er ?  when  the  great  office  itself  is  concerned,  and  not  the 
pettiness  of  an  exception  ?  Besides,  sir,  Wilkes,  though 
a  rascal  and  a  Whig,  was  a  gentleman  in  manners,  as 
well  as  birth  {looking  sternly  at  Boswell).  He  would 
not  have  made  such  a  remark. — To  be  sure  {relenting 
a  little,  and  looking  arch)  he  got  drunk  sometimes." 

Boswell  (interrupting).     "  Dear  sir  ! — " 

Johnson.  "Neither  was  he  scrupulous  in  his  admi- 
ration of  beauty." 

Boswell.     "  Dearest  sir  ! — " 

Johnson.  "  Though  whatsoever  the  frenzy  of  his 
inebriation,  or  the  vagrancy  of  his  nocturnal  revels,  he 
would  hardly  have  mistaken  an  oyster-woman  for  a 
Hebe.  Well,  well,  sir,  let  us  be  mutually  considerate. 
Let  us  be  decent.  To  cut  this  matter  short,  sir,  I 
should  be  an  ojnnihus." 

Boswell  {with  grateful  earnestness).  "  May  I  pre- 
sume, dear  sir,  to  inquire  the  reason  ?" 

Johnson.  "  Sir,  I  should  not  be  a  cart.  That  would 
be  low.  Neither  should  I  aspire  to  be  the  triumphant 
chariot  of  an  Alexander,  or  the  funeral  car  of  a  Napo- 
leon. Posthumous  knowledge  has  corrected  those 
sympathies  with  ambition.  A  gig  is  pert ;  a  curricle 
coxcombical ;  and  the  steam-carriage  is  too  violent,  per- 
turbed, and  migratory.     Sir,  the  omnibus  for  me.     It 


lilE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS.  19 

suits  with  my  past  state  and  my  present ;  with  the  hu- 
manities I  have  retained,  and' with  thosa  which  I  have 
acquired.  Sir.  it  even  makes  me  he'g  pardon  for  what 
I  have  said  of  Wilkes.  Mors  omnibus  communis.  Like 
death,  it  is  common  to  ail,  and  gathers  them  into  its 
friendly  bosom.  It  is  decent,  deliberate,  and  unpre- 
tending ;  no  respecter  of  persons ;  a  king  has  been 
known  to  ride  in  it  ;*  and  opposite  the  king  may  have 
sat  a  republican  weaver." 

BoswELL.  "  But  you  would  choose,  sir,  to  be  a  Lon- 
don omnibus,  rather  than  a  Parisian  one,  or  even  a 
Litchfield  ?" 

Johnson  (with  bland  indulgence).  "Surely,  sir; 
and  to  go  up  the  Strand  and  Fleet-street,  and  occa- 
sionally to  stop  at  the  Mitre.  And,  sir,  I  would  not  be , 
driven  by  everybody,  though  I  can  now  tolerate  every- 
body. I  would  have  a  humane  and  respectable  driver ; 
an  elderly  man,  sir ; — and  my  windows  should  be  taken 
care  of,  that  the  people  might  not  catch  cold." 

Here  Boswell,  begging  a  thousand  pardons,  with 
shrugged  shoulders,  lifted  eyebrows,  and  hands  spread 
out  in  deprecation  of  offence,  bursts,  nevertheless,  into 
an  uncontrollable  fit  of  laughter,  at  the  idea  of  the  sol- 
emn and  illustrious  Johnson  converted  into  an  omnibus. 
And  the  Doctor,  though  a  little  angry  at  first,  recol- 
lects his  Elysian  experiences,  and  at  length  contributes 
to  a  roar  worthy  of  the  inextinguishable  laughter  of  the 
gods  in  Homer. 

Johnson  {subsiding  into  a  human  measure  of  jovial- 
ity). "  Sir,  it  was  ludicrous  enough,  if  you  consider 
it  as  a  man  ;  but  if  you  consider  it  as  a  child,  or  as  a 
divine  person,  (to  speak  in  the  language  of  our  new 

*  So  it  has  been  said  of  Louis  Philippe,  during  his  "  citizen-king " 
days. 


20  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIB#l. 

friend,  Plato),  the  subject  will  be  invested  with  the  mild 
gravity  of  an. impartial  universality.  I  see,  however, 
that  it  will  take  many  more  draughts  of  Lethe,  before 
you,  Boswell,  can  get  the  fumes  of  the  old  tavern  wine 
out  of  your  head :  so  let  us  consult  your  capabilities, 
and  return  to  human  measui'es  of  discourse ;  let  us  have 
reason  once  more,  sir ; — sir  (for  I  see  you  wish  me  to 
say  it),  let  us  be  good  mortal  jolly  dogs,  and  have 
t'other  bottle." 

Vanish  the  ever  pleasant  shades  of  Johnson  and  Bos- 
well, and  enter  the  omnibus  in  its  own  proper  person. — 
If  a  morning  omnibus,  it  is  full  of  clerks  and  merchants ; 
if  a  noon,  of  chance  fares  ;  if  a  night,  of  returning  cit- 
izens and  fathers  of  families ;  if  a  midnight,  of  play- 
, goers,  and  gentlemen  lax  with  stiff  glasses  of  brandy- 
and- water. 

Being  one  of  the  chance  fares,  we  enter  an  omnibus 
which  has  yet  no  other  inside  passenger ;  and  having 
no  book  with  us,  we  make  intense  acquaintance  with 
two  objects :  the  one  being  the  heel  of  an  outside  pas- 
senger's boot,  who  is  sitting  on  the  coach-top ;  and  the 
other,  that  universally  studied  bit  of  literature,  which 
is  inscribed  at  the  further  end  of  every  such  vehicle, 
and  which  purports,  that  it  is  under  the  royal  and 
charming  jurisdiction  of  the  young  lady  now  reigning 
over  us, 

V.         R. 

by  whom  it  is  permitted  to  carry  "  twelve  inside  pas- 
sengers, AND  NO  MORE : — thus  sliowiug  extreme  con- 
sideration on  her  Majesty's  part,  and  that  she  will  not 
have  the  sides  of  her  loving  subjects  squeezed  together 
like  figs. 

Enter  a  precise  personage,  probably  a  Methodist, 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS.  21 

certainly  "  well  off,"  who  seats  himself  right  in  the  mid- 
way of  his  side  of  the  Omnibus  ;  that  is  to  say,  at  equal 
distances  between  the  two  extremities ;  because  it  is 
the  spot  in  which  you  least  feel  the  inconvenience  of 
the  motion.  He  is  a  man  who  seldom  makes  a  remark, 
or  takes  notice  of  what  is  going  forward,  unless  a  pay- 
ment is  to  be  resisted,  or  the  entrance  of  a  passenger 
beyond  the  lawful  number.  Now  and  then  he  hems, 
and  adjusts  a  glove ;  or  wipes  a  little  dust  off  one  of 
the  cuffs  of  his  coat. 

In  leaps  a  youngster,  and  seats  himself  close  at  the 
door,  in  order  to  be  ready  to  leap  out  again. 

Item,  a  maid-servant,  flustered  with  the  fear  of  being 
too  late,  and  reddening  furthermore  betwixt  awkward- 
ness, and  the  resentment  of  it,  at  not  being  quite  sure 
where  to  seat  herself.  A  jerk  of  the  Omnibus  pitches 
her  against  the  precisian,  and  makes  both  her  and  the 
youngster  laugh. 

Enter  a  young  lady,  in  colors  and  big  ear-rings, 
and  excessively  flounced  and  ringleted,  and  seats  her- 
self opposite  the  maid-servant,  who  beholds  her  with 
admiration,  but  secretly  thinks  herself  handsomer,  and 
what  a  pity  it  is  she  was  not  a  lady  herself,  to  become 
tiie  ringlets  and  flounces  better. 

Enter  two  more  young  ladies,  in  white,  who  pass  to 
the  other  end  in  order  to  be  out  of  the  way  of  the  knees 
and  boots  of  those  who  quit.  They  whisper  and  giggle 
much,  and  are  quizzing  the  young  lady  in  the  reds  and 
ringlets ;  who,  for  her  part  (though  she  knows  it,  and 
could  squeeze  all  their  bonnets  together  for  rage),  looks 
as  firm  and  unconcerned  as  a  statue. 

Enter  a'^andy,  too  handsome  to  be  quizzed;  and 
then  a  man  with  a  bundle,  who  is  agreeably  surprised 


22  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

with  the  gentlemanly  toleration  of  the  dandy  and  un- 
aware of  the  secret  disgust  of  the  Methodist. 

Item,  an  old  gentleman  ;  then,  a  very  fat  man  ;  then, 
two  fat  elderly  women,  one  of  whom  is  very  angry  at 
the  incommodious  presence  of  her  counterparts,  while 
the  other,  full  of  good  humor,  is  comforted  by  it.  The 
youngster  has  in  the  meantime  gone  to  sit  on  the  coach- 
top,  in  order  to  make  room  ;  and  W3  set  off  to  the 
place  of  our  destination. 

What  an  intense  intimacy  we  get  with  the  face, 
neckcloth,  waistcoat,  and  watch-chain  of  the  man  who 
sits  opposite  us  !  Who  is  he  ?  What  is  his  name  ? 
Is  his  care  a  great  care, — an  affliction?  Is  his  look 
of  cheerfulness  real  ?  At  length  he  looks  at  ourselves, 
asking  himself,  no  doubt,  similar  questions  ;  and,  as  it 
is  less  pleasant  to  be  scrutinized  than  to  scrutinize,  we 
now  set  him  the  example  of  turning  the  eyes  another 
way.  How  unpleasant  it  must  be  to  the  very  fat  man 
to  be  so  gazed  at !  Think,  if  he  sat  as  close  to  us  in 
a  private  room,  in  a  chair  !  How  he  would  get  up, 
and  walk  away  !  But  here,  sit  he  must,  and  have  his 
portrait  taken  by  our  memories.  We  sigh  for  his 
plethora,  with  a  breath  almost  as  piteous  as  his  wheez- 
ing. And  he  has  a  sensible  face  withal,  and  has,  per- 
haps, acquired  a  painful  amount  of  intellectual  as  well 
as  physical  knowledge,  from  the  melancholy  that  has 
succeeded  to  his  joviality.  Fat  men  always  appear 
to  be  "  good  fellows,"  unless  there  is  some  manifest 
proof  to  the  contrary  ;  so  we  wish,  for  his  sake,  that 
everybody  in  this  world  could  do  just  as  he  pleased, 
and  die  of  a  very  dropsy  of  delight. 

Exeunt  our  fat  friend,  and  the  more  ill^umored  of 
the  two  fat  women  ;  and  enter,  in  their  places,  two 
young   mothers, — one  with  a  good-humored   child,  a 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OiMNIBUS.  23 

female;  the  other  with  a  great,  handsome,  red-cheeked 
wilful  boy,  all  flounce  and  hat  and  feathers,  and  red 
legs,  who  is  eating  a  bun,  and  who  seems  resolved 
that  the  other  child,  who  does  nothing  but  look  at  it, 
shall  not  partake  a  morsel.  His  mother,  who  "  snubs" 
him  one  instant,  and  lets  him  have  his  way  the  next, 
has  been  a  spoiled  child  herself,  and  is  doing  her  best 
to  learn  to  repent  the  sorrow  she  caused  her  own 
mother,  by  the  time  she  is  a  dozen  years  older.  The 
elderly  gentleman  comphments  the  boy  on  his  likeness 
to  his  mamma,  who  laughs  and  says  he  is  "  very 
pohte."  As  to  the  young  gentleman,  he  fancies  he  is 
asked  for  a  piece  of  his  bun,  and  falls  a  kicking ;  and 
the  young  lady  in  the  ringlets  tosses  her  head. 

Exit  the  Methodist,  and  enter  an  affable  man ;  who, 
having  protested  it  is  very  cold,  and  lamented  a  stop- 
page, and  vented  the  original  remark  that  you  gain 
nothing  by  an  omnibus  in  point  of  time,  subsides  into 
an  elegant  silence  ;  but  he  is  fastened  upon  by  the 
man  with  the  bundle,  who,  encouraged  by  his  apparent 
good-nature,  tells  him,  in  an  under  tone,  some  anec- 
dotes relative  to  his  own  experience  of  omnibuses ; 
which  the  affable  gentleman  endures  with  a  variety 
of  assenting  exclamations,  intended  quite  as  much  to 
stop  as  to  encourage,  not  one  of  which  succeeds  ;  such 
as  "  Ah"—"  Oh"—"  Indeed"—"  Precisely"—"  I  dare 
say"—"  I  see"—"  Really  ?"— "  Very  likely  ;"— jerking 
the  top  of  his  stick  occasionally  against  his  mouth  as 
he  speaks,  and  nobody  pitying  him. 

Meantime  the  good-humored  fat  woman  having  ex- 
pressed a  wish  to  have  a  window  closed  which  the 
ill-humored  one  had  taken  upon  her  to  open,  and  the 
two  young  ladies  in  the  corner  giving  their  assent,  but 
none  of  the  three  being  able  to  pull  it  u\^.  the  elderly 


24  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

gentleman,  in  an  ardor  of  gallantry,  anxious  to  show 
his  pleasing  combination  of  strength  and  tenderness, 
exclaims,  "  Permit  me  ;"  and  jumping  up,  cannot  do  it 
at  all.  The  window  cruelly  sticks  fast.  It  only 
brings  up  all  the  blood  into  his  face  with  the  mingled 
shame  and  incompetence  of  the  endeavor.  He  is  a 
conscientious  kind  of  incapable,  however,  is  the  elderly 
gentleman  ;  so  he  calls  in  the  conductor,  who  does  it 
in  an  instant.  "  He  knows  the  trick,"  says  the  elderly 
gentleman.  "  It 's  only  a  little  bit  new,"  says  the  con- 
ductor ;  who  hates  to  be  called  in. 

Exeunt  elderly  and  the  maid-servant,  and  enter  an 
unreflecting  young  gentleman  who  has  bought  an 
orange,  and  must  needs  eat  it  immediately.  He  ac- 
cordingly begins  by  peeling  it,  and  is  first  made  aware 
of  the  delicacy  of  his  position  by  the  gigglement  of  the 
two  young  ladies,  and  his  doubt  where  he  shall  throw 
the  peel.  He  is  "  in  for  it,"  however,  and  must  pro- 
ceed ;  so  being  unable  to  divide  the  orange  into  its 
segments,  he  ventures  upon  a  great  liquid  bite,  which 
resounds  through  the  omnibus,  and  covers  the  whole 
of  the  lower  pai't  of  his  face  with  pip  and  drip.  The 
young  lady  with  the  ringlets  is  right  before  him.  The 
two  other  young  ladies  stuff  their  handkerchiefs  into 
their  mouths,  and  he,  into  his  own  mouth,  the  whole 
of  the  rest  of  the  fruit,  "  sloshy"  and  too  big,  with  des- 
peration in  his  heart,  and  the  tears  in  his  eyes.  Never 
will  he  eat  an  orange  again  in  an  omnibus.  He 
doubts  whether  he  shall  even  venture  upon  one  at  all 
in  the  presence  of  his  friends,  the  Miss  Wilkinsons. 

Enter,  at  various  times,  an  irascible  gentleman,  who 
is  constantly  threatening  to  go  out;  a  long-legged 
dragoon„  at  whose  advent  the  young  ladies  are  smit 
with  sudden  gravity  and  apparent  objection  ;  a  young 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN     OMNIBUS.  25 

sailor,  with  a  face  innocent  of  everything  but  a  pride 
in  his  slops,  who  says  his  mother  does  not  hke  his 
going  to  sea  ;  a  gentleman  with  a  book,  which  we 
long  to  ask  him  to  let  us  look  at ;  a  man  with  a  dog, 
which  embitters  the  feet  and  ankles  of  a  sharp-visaged 
old  lady,  and  completes  her  horror  by  getting  on  the 
empty  seat  next  her,  and  looking  out  of  the  window  ; 
divers  bankers'  clerks  and  tradesmen,  who  think  of 
nothing  but  the  bills  in  their  pockets  ;  two  estranged 
friends,  ignoi'ing  each  other  ;  a  pompous  fellow,  who 
suddenly  looks  modest  and  bewitched,  having  detected 
a  baronet  in  the  corner  ;  a  botanist  with  his  tin  her- 
barium ;  a  young  married  couple,  assuming  a  right 
to  be  fond  in  public ;  another  from  the  country,  who 
exalt  all  the  rest  of  the  passengers  in  self-opinion  by 
betraying  the  amazing  fact,  that  they  have  never  be- 
fore seen  Piccfidilly  ;  a  footman,  intensely  clean  in  his 
habiliments,  and  very  respectful,  for  his  hat  subdues 
him,  as  well  as  the  strange  feeling  of  sitting  inside  ; 
four  boys  going  to  school,  very  pudding-faced,  and 
not  knowing  how  to  behave  (one  pulls  a  string  and 
top  halfway  out  of  his  pocket,  and  all  reply  to  ques- 
tions in  monosyllables ;)  a  person  with  a  constant 
smile  on  his  face,  having  just  cheated  another  in  a 
bargain ;  close  to  him  a  very  melancholy  person, 
jToinfT  to  see  a  daucrhter  on  her  death-bed,  and  not 
hearing  a  single  one  of  the  cheater's  happy  remarks  ; 
a  French  lady,  looking  at  once  amiable  and  wordly, — 
hard,  as  it  were,  in  the  midst  of  her  softness,  or  soft  in 
the  midst  of  her  hardness, — which  you  will, — probably 
an  actress,  or  a  teacher ;  two  immense-whiskered 
Italians,  uttering  their  delicious  language  with  a  pre- 
cision which  shows  that  they  are  singers  ;  a  man  in  a 
smock-frock,  who.  by  his  sittini;  on  the  edge  of  tht; 
Vol-.  I.  2 


26  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

seat,  and  perpetually  watching  his  time  to  go  out, 
seems  to  make  a  constant  apology  for  his  presence  ; 
ditto,  a  man  with  some  huge  mysterious  accompani- 
ment of  mechanism,  or  implement  of  trade,  too  big  to 
be  lawfully  carried  inside  ;  a  pedant  or  a  fop,  ostenta- 
tious of  some  ancient  or  foreign  language,  or  talking 
of  a  lord ;  all  sorts  of  people  talking  of  the  weather, 
and  the  harvest,  and  the  Queen,  and  the  last  bit  of 
news  ;  in  short,  every  description  of  age,  rank,  temper, 
occupation,  appearance,  life,  character,  and  behavior, 
from  the  thorough  gentleman  who  quietly  gives  him- 
self a  lift  out  of  the  rain,  secure  in  his  easy  unaffected 
manner,  and  his  accommodating  good-breeding,  down 
to  the  blackguard  who  attempts  to  thrust  his  opinion 
down  the  throat  of  his  neighbor,  or  keeps  his  leg  thrust 
out  across  the  doorway,  or  lets  his  umbrella,  drip 
against  a  sick  child. 

Tempers  are  exhibited  most  at  night,  because  peo- 
ple by  that  time  have  dined  and  drunk,  and  finished 
their  labors,  and  because  the  act  of  going  home  serves 
to  bring  out  the  domestic  habit.  You  do  not  then,  in- 
deed, so  often  see  the  happy  fatigue,  delighted  with  the 
sudden  opportunity  of  rest ;  nor  the  anxious  look,  as  if 
it  feared  its  journey's  end  ;  nor  the  bustling  one,  eager 
to  get  there.  The  seats  are  most  commonly  reckoned 
upon,  and  more  allowance  is  made  for  delays ;  though 
some  passengers  make  a  point  of  always  being  in  a 
state  of  indignation  and  ill-treatment,  and  express  an 
impatience  to  get  home,  as  if  their  house  were  a  para- 
dise (which  is  assuredly  what  it  is  not,  to  those  who 
expect  them  there).  But  at  night  tongues  are  loosened, 
wills  and  pleasures  more  freely  expressed,  and  faces 
rendered  less  bashful  by  the  comparative  darkness.  It 
is  then  that  the  "jovial  old  boy"  lets  out  the  secret  of 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS.  27 

his  having  dined  somewhere,  perhaps  at  some  Com- 
pany's feast  in  Goldsmiths'  or  Stationers'  Hall ;  and  it 
is    with   difficulty   he    hinders    himself  from    singing. 
Then  the  arbitrary  or  the  purse-proud  are  wrathful  if 
they  are  not  driven  up  to  the  identical  inch  of  curb- 
stone fronting  their  door.     Then  the  incontinent  na- 
ture, heedless  of  anything   but   its   own   satisfaction, 
snores  in  its  corner  ;   then  politicians  are  loud  ;  and 
gay  fellows  gallant,  especially  if  they  are  old  and  ugly; 
and  lovers,  who  seem  unconscious  of  one   another's 
presence,  are  intensely  the  reverse.     Then  also  the 
pickpocket  is  luckiest  at  his  circumventions  ;  and  the 
lady,  about  to  pay  her  fare,  suddenly  misses  her  reti- 
cule.    Chiefly  now   also,  sixpences,  nay  purses,  are 
missed  in  the  straw,  and   lights  are  brought   to  look 
for  it,  and  the  conductor  is  in  an  agonizing  perplexity 
whether  to  pronounce  the  loser  an  impudent  cheat,  or 
to  love  him  for  being  an  innocent  and  a  ninny.    Finally, 
now  is  the  time  when  selfishness  and  generosity  are 
most  exhibited.      It   rains,  and    the  coach  is   full ;  a 
lady  applies  far  admittance  ;  a  gentleman  offers  to  go 
outside  ;  and,  according  to  the  natures  of  the  various 
passengers,  he  is  despised  or  respected  accordingly. 
It  rains  horribly :  a  "  young  woman"  applies  for  ad- 
mittance ;  the  coach  is  overstocked  already  ;  a  crapu- 
lous fellow  who  has  been  allowed  to  come  in  by  special 
favor,  protests  against  the  exercise  of  the  like  charity 
to  a  female,  (we  have  seen  it !)  and  is  secretly  detested 
by  the  least  generous;    a  similar   gentleman   to  the 
above,  offers  to  take  the  apj)licant  on  his  knee,  if  she 
has  no  objection;  and  she  enters  accordingly,  and  sits. 
Is  she  pretty?     Is  she  ugly?     Above  all,  is  she  good- 
humored  ?     A  question  of  some  concern,  even  to  the 
least  interested  of  knee-givers.     On  the  other  hand,  is 


28  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

the  gentleman  young  or  old,  pleasant  or  disagreeable  ; 
a  real  gentleman,  or  only  a  formal  "  old  frump,"  who 
has  hardly  a  right  to  be  civil  ?  At  length  the  parties 
get  a  look  at  one  another,  the  gentleman  first,  the  young 
woman  suddenly  from  under  her  bonnet.  Ought  she 
to  have  looked  at  all  1  And  what  is  the  particular  re- 
trospective expression  which  she  instinctively  chooses 
out  of  many,  when  she  has  looked  ?  It  is  a  nice  ques- 
tion, varying  according  to  circumstances.  "  Making 
room"  for  a  fair  interloper  is  no  such  dilemma  as  that ; 
though  we  may  be  allowed  to  think,  that  the  pleasure 
is  greatly  enhanced  by  the  pleasantness  of  the  counte- 
nance. It  is  astonishing  how  much  grace  is  put,  even 
into  the  tip  of  an  elbow,  by  the  turn  of  an  eye. 

There  is  a  reflection  which  all  omnibus  passengers 
are  agreed  upon,  and  which  every  one  of  them  perhaps 
has  made,  without  exception,  in  the  course  of  their  in- 
tellectual reciprocities ;  which  is,  that  omnibuses  are 
"  very  convenient ;"— "  an  astonishing  accommodation 
to  the  public  ;" — not  quick, — save  little  time,  (as  afore- 
said),—and  the  conductors  are  very  tiresome;  but  a 
most  useful  invention,  and  wonderfully  cheap.  There 
are  also  certain  things  which  almost  all  omnibus  pas- 
sengers do ;  such  as  help  ladies  to  and  fro  ;  gradually 
get  nearer  to  the  door  whenever  a  vacant  seat  occurs, 
so  as  to  force  the  new  comer  further  up  than  he  likes  ; 
and  all  people  stumble,  forward  or  sideways,  when 
they  first  come  in,  and  the  coach  sets  off*  before  they 
are  seated.  Among  the  pleasures,  are  seeing  the 
highly  satisfied  faces  of  persons  suddenly  relieved  from 
a  long  walk  ;  being  able  to  read  a  book ;  and,  occa- 
sionally, observing  one  of  a  congenial  sort  in  the  hands 
of  a  fellow  passenger.  Among  the  evils,  are  dirty 
boots  and  wetting  umbrellas  ;  broken   pnnes  of  glass 


THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS.  29 

in  bad  weather,  afflicting  the  napes  of  the  necks  of  in- 
valids :  and  fellows  who  endeavor  to  convenience 
themselves  at  everybody's  expense,  by  taking  up  as 
much  room  as  possible,  and  who  pretend  to  alter  their 
oblique  position  when  remonstrated  with,  without 
really  doing  it.  Item,  cramps  in  the  leg,  when  thrust- 
ing it  excessively  backwards  underneath  the  seat,  in 
making  way  for  a  new  comer, — the  patient  thrusting  it 
forth  again  with  an  agonized  vivacity,  that  sets  the 
man  opposite  him  laughing.  Item,  cruel  treading, 
upon  corns,  the  whole  being  of  the  old  lady  or  gentle- 
man seeming  to  be  mashed  into  the  burning  foot,  and 
the  sufferer  looking  in  an  ecstacy  of  tormented  doubt 
whether  to  be  decently  quiet  or  murderously  vocifer- 
ous,— the  inflicter,  meanwhile,  thinking  it  sufficient  to 
say  "Very  sorry,"  in  an  indifferent  tone  of  voice,  and 
taking  his  seat,  with  an  air  of  luxurious  complacency. 
Among  the  pleasures  also,  particularly  in  going  home 
at  night,  must  not  be  forgotten  the  having  the  omnibus 
finally  to  yourself,  re-adjusting  yourself  in  a  corner 
betwixt  slumbering  and  waking,  and  throwing  up 
your  feet  on  the  seat  opposite  ;  though  as  the  will  be- 
comes piqued  in  proportion  to  its  luxuries,  you  always 
regret  that  the  seats  are  not  wider,  and  that  you  can- 
not treat  your  hat,  on  cold  nights,  as  freely  as  if  it  were 
a  night-cap. 

The  last  lingerers  on  these  occasions  (with  the  ex- 
ception of  play-goers),  are  apt  to  be  staid  suburb- 
dwelling  citizens, — sitters  with  hands  crossed  upon 
their  walking-sticks, — men  of  parcels  and  eatables, 
breakers  of  last  baskets  of  oranges,  chuckling  over 
their  bargains.  There's  one  in  the  corner  sleeping, — 
the  last  of  the  dwellers  in  Paddington.  To  deposit  him 
at  his  door  is  the  sole  remaining  task  of  the  conductor. 


30  THE    INSIDE    OF    AN    OMNIBUS. 

He  wakes  up  ;  hands  forth  a  bag  of  apples, — a  tongue, 
a  bonnet,  and  four  pairs  of  ladies'  shoes.  A  most  con- 
siderate spouse  and  "  Papa"  is  he,  and  a  most  worthy 
and  flourishing  hosier.  Venerable  is  his  lax  throat  in 
his  bit  of  white  neckcloth  (he  has  never  taken  to 
black) ;  but  jovially  also  he  shakes  his  wrinkles,  if  you 
talk  of  the  stationer's  widow,  or  the  last  city  feast. . 

"  Don't  drop  them  ladies'  shoes,  Tom,"  says  he, 
chuckling  ;  "  they'll  be  worn  out  before  their  time." 

"  Wery  expensive,  I  beUeve,  sir,  them  'ere  kind  o' 
shoes,"  says  Tom. 

"  Vei-y ; — oh,  sadly.  And  no  better  than  paper. 
But  men  well  to  do  in  the  world,  can't  live  as  cheap 
as  poor  ones." 

Tom  thinks  this  a  very  odd  proposition ;  but  it  does 
not  disconcert  him.  Nothing  disconcerts  a  conductor, 
except  a  passenger  without  a  sixpence. 

"  True,  sir,"  says  Tom  ;  "  it's  a  hard  case  to  be 
forced  to  spend  one's  money  ;  but  then  you  know — I 
beg  pardon"  (with  a  tone  of  modest  deference  and 
secret  contempt,)  "it's  much  harder,  as  they  say, 
where  there's  none  to  spend." 

"  Hah  !  Ha,  ha  !  Why,  yes,  eh  ?"  returns  the  old 
gentleman,  again  chuckling ;  "  so  there's  your  six- 
pence, Tom,  and  good-night." 

"  Good-night,  sir."  And  up  jumps  Tom  on  the 
coach-box,  where  he  amuses  the  driver  with  an  ac- 
count of  the  dirt  which  the  hosier  has  got  from  the 
coach-wheel  without  his  knowing  it ;  and  off  they  go 
to  a  far  less  good  supper,  but,  it  must  be  added,  a  much 
better  sleep,  than  the  rich  old  citizen. 


THE   DAY    OF  THE   DISASTERS    OF   CAR- 
FINGTON   BLUNDELL,   ESQUIRE. 

Description  of  a  penurious  independent  gentleman,  fond  of  invitations 
and  the  greai. — He  takes  his  tvay  to  a  "  dining  out." — His  calamities 
on  the  road. — And  on  his  return. 

Carfington  Blundell,  Esquire,  aged  six-and- thirty, 
but  apparently  a  dozen  years  older,  was  a  spare,  well- 
dressed,  sickly-looking,  dry  sort  of  leisurely  individ- 
ual, of  respectable  birth,  very  small  income,  and  no 
abilities.  He  was  the  younger  son  of  the  younger 
son  of  a  younger  brother ;  and  not  being  able  to 
marry  a  fortune,  (which  once,  they  say,  nearly  made 
him  die  for  love),  and  steering  clear,  with  a  provoking 
philosophy,  of  the  corkscrew  curls  and  pretty  stair- 
case perplexities  of  the  young  ladies  of  lodging-houses, 
contrived  to  live  in  London  upon  the  rent  of  halt  a 
dozen  cottages  in  Berkshire. 

Having,  in  fact,  no  imagination,  Carfington  Blun- 
dell, Esquire,  had  no  sympathies,  except  with  the 
wants  and  wishes  of  that  interesting  personage,  Car- 
fington Blundell,  Esquire — of  whom  he  always  bore 
about  with  him  as  lively  an  image  in  his  brain  as  it 
was  possible  for  it  to  possess,  and  with  whom,  when 
other  people  were  of  the  least  consequence  to  his  in- 
clinations, he  was  astonished  that  the  whole  world  did 
not  hasten  to  sympathize.  On  every  other  occasion, 
ihe  only  thing  which  he  had  to  do  with  his  fellow- 


32  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

creatures,  all  and  every  of  them,  was,  he  thouo-ht,  to 
leave  them  alone ; — an  excellent  principle,  as  far  as 
concerns  their  own  wish  to  be  so  left,  but  not  quite  so 
much  so  in  the  reverse  instances ;  such,  for  example, 
as  when  they  have  fallen  into  ditches,  or  want  to  be 
paid  their  bills,  or  have  a  turn  for  delicate  attentions, 
or  under  any  other  circumstances  which  induce  people 
to  suppose  that  you  might  as  well  do  to  them  as  you 
would  be  done  by,  Mr.  Blundell,  it  is  true,  was  a 
regular  payer  of  his  bills  ;  and  though,  agreeably  to 
that  absorption  of  himself  in  the  one  interesting  idea 
above  mentioned,  he  was  not  famous  for  paying  deli- 
cate attentions,  except  where  he  took  a  fancy  to  having 
them  paid  to  himself;  yet,  provided  the  morning  was 
not  very  cold  or  muddy,  and  he  had  a  stick  with  him 
for  the  individual  to  lay  hold  of,  and  could  reckon  upon 
using  it  without  soiling  his  shoes,  or  straining  his 
muscles,  the  probability  is,  that  he  might  have  helped 
a  man  out  of  a  ditch.  As  people,  however,  are  not  in 
the  habit  of  falling  into  ditches,  especially  about 
Regent-street,  and  as  it  was  not  easy  to  conjecture  in 
what  other  instances  Mr.  Blundell  might  have  deemed 
it  fitting  to  evince  a  sense  of  the  existence  of  anything 
but  his  own  coat  and  waistcoat,  muffins,  mutton  cutlet, 
and  bed,  certain  it  is,  that  the  sympathies  of  others 
were  anything  but  lively  towards  himself;  and  they 
would  have  been  less  so,  if  the  only  other  intense  idea 
which  he  had  in  his  head,  to  wit,  that  of  his  birth  and 
connections  (which  he  pretty  freely  overrated),  had 
not  instinctively  led  him  to  hit  upon  the  precise  class 
of  acquaintances,  to  whom  his  insipidity  could  have 
been  welcome. 

These    acquaintances,    with   whom    he   dined    fre- 
quently (and  breakfasted  too),  were  rich  men,  of   a 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  33 

grade  a  good  deal  lower  than  himself;  and  to  such  of 
these  as  had  not  "  unexpectedly  left  town,"  he  gave  a 
sort  of  a  quiet,  particular,  just-enough  kind  of  a  lodg- 
ing-house dinner  once  a  year,  the  shoe-black  in  gioves 
assisting  the  deputy  under- waiter  from  the  tavern. 
The  friends  out  of  town  he  paid  with  regrets  at  their 
"  lamented  absence  ;"  and  the  whole  of  them  he  would 
have  thought  amply  recompensed,  even  without  his 
giving  into  this  fond  notion  of  the  necessity  of  a  dinner 
on  his  part,  by  the  fact  of  his  eating  their  good  things, 
and  talking  of  his  fifth  cousin  the  Marquis  ;  a  person- 
age, by  the  way,  who  never  heard  of  him.  He  did, 
indeed,  once  contrive  to  pick  up  the  Marquis's  glove 
at  the  opera,  and  to  intimate  at  the  same  time  that  his 
name  was  Blundell ;  upon  which  the  noble  lord,  star- 
ing somewhat,  but  good-humoredly  smiling  withal, 
said,  •'  Much  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Bungle."  As  to  his 
positive  insipidity  over  the  hock  and  pine-apples  of  his 
friends,  Mr.  Blundell  never  dreamt  of  such  a  thing; 
and  if  he  happened  to  sit  next  to  any  wit,  or  other  lion 
of  the  day,  who  seemed  of  consequence  enough  to 
compete  with  the  merits  of  his  presence,  he  thought  it 
amply  set  off  by  his  taste  in  having  had  such  ancestors, 
and  indeed  in  simply  being  that  identical  Mr.  Blundell, 
who,  in  having  no  merits  at  all,  was  gifted  by  the  kind 
providence  of  nature  with  a  proportionate  sense  of  his 
enjoying  a  superabundance  of  them. 

To  complete  the  idea  of  him  in  the  reader's  mind, 
his  manners  were  gentlemanly,  except  that  they  be- 
trayed now  and  then  too  nice  a  sense  of  his  habili- 
mt^nts.  His  hat  he  always  held  in  the  best  way 
adapted  to  keep  it  in  shape ;  and  a  footman  coming 
once  too  softly  into  a  room  where  he  was  waiting 
during  a  call,  detected  him  in  the  act  of  dusting  his 


34  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

boots  with  an  extra  colored  handkerchief,  which  he 
always  carried  about  with  liim  for  that  purpose.  He 
calculated,  that  with  allowance  for  changes  in  the 
weather,  it  saved  him  a  good  four  months'  coach-hire. 

Such  was  the  accomplished  individual,  who,  in  the 
month  of  May,  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  one  thousand 
eight  hundred  and  twenty-seven,  and  in  a  "  fashionable 
dress  of  the  first  water"  (as  Sir  Phelim  called  it), 
issued  forth  from  his  lodgings  near  St.  James's,  draw- 
ing the  air  through  his  teeth  with  an  elegant  indiffer- 
ence, coughing  slightly  at  intervals  out  of  emotion, 
and,  to  say  the  truth,  as  happy  as  coat  and  hat,  hunger, 
a  dinner-party,  and  a  fine  day  could  make  him.  Had 
the  weather  been  in  the  srifellest  degree  rainy,  or  the 
mansion  for  which  he  was  bound  at  any  distance,  the 
spectators  were  to  understand  that  he  would  have 
come  in  his  own  carriage,  or  at  least  that  he  intended 
to  call  a  coach  ;  but  as  the  day  was  so  very  fine,  and 
he  kept  looking  at  every  door  that  he  passed,  as  though 
each  were  the  one  he  was  about  to  knock  at,  the  con- 
clusion to  be  drawn  was,  that  having  but  a  little  way 
to  go,  and  possessing  a  high  taste  for  superiority  to 
appearances,  it  was  his  pleasure  to  go  on  foot.  Vul- 
gar wealth  might  be  always  making  out  its  case. 
Dukes  and  he  could  afford  to  dispense  with  pretension. 

The  day  was  beautiful,  the  sky  blue,  the  air  a 
zephyr,  the  ground  in  that  perfect  state  for  walking  (a 
day  or  two  before  dust),  when  there  is  a  sort  of  dry 
moisture  in  the  earth,  and  people  in  the  country  prefer 
the  road  to  the  path.  The  house  at  which  our  hero 
was  going  to  dine,  was  midway  between  the  west  end 
•and  the  north-east ;  and  he  had  just  got  half-way,  and 
was  in  a  very  quiet  street,  when  in  the  "  measureless 
rontent"  of  his  anticipations,  he  thought  he  would  in- 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  35 

dulge  his  eyesight  with  one  or  two  of  those  personal 
ornaments,  the  presence  of  which,  on  leaving  the 
house,  he  always  ascertained  with  sundry  pattings  of 
his  waistcoat  and  coat  pockets.  Having,  therefore, 
again  assured  himself  that  he  had  duly  got  his  two 
pocket-handkerchiefs,  his  ring,  his  shirt-pin,  his  snuff- 
box, his  watch,  and  his  purse  tender  his  watch,  he  first 
took  off  a  glove  that  he  might  behold  the  ring :  and 
then,  with  the  ungloved  hand,  he  took  out  the  snuff- 
box, in  order  that  he  might  as  delicately  contemplate 
the  snuff-box. 

Now  the  snuff-box  was  an  ancient  but  costly  snuff- 
box, once  the  possession  of  his  grandmother,  who  had 
it  from  her  uncle,  whose  arms,  flaming  in  or  and  gules, 
were  upon  the  lid  ;  and  inside  the  lid  was  a  most  in- 
geniously-contrived portrait  of  the  uncle's  lady,  in  a 
shepherdess's  hat  and  powdered  toupee,  looking,  or  to 
be  supposed  to  be  looking,  into  an  actual  bit  of  look- 
ing-glass. 

Carfington  Blundell,  Esquire,  in  a  transport  of  ease, 
hope,  and  ancestral  elegance,  and  with  that  expression 
of  countenance,  the  insipidity  of  which  is  bound  to  be 
in  proportion  to  the  inward  rapture,  took  a  pinch  out 
of  this  hereditary  amenity,  and  was  in  the  act  of  giving 
a  glance  at  his  grand-aunt  before  he  closed  the  lid, 
when  a  strange,  respectably-dressed  person,  who 
seemed  to  be  going  somewhere  in  a  great  hurry,  sud- 
denly dashed  against  him  ;  and,  uttering  the  words, 
"  With  pleasure,"  dipped  his  fingers  into  the  box,  and 
sent  it,  as  Carfington  thought,  half-way  across  the 
street. 

Intense  was  the  indignation,  but  at  the  same  time 
highly  considerate  the  movement,  of  jNIr.  Blundell  ; 
who  seeing  the  "  impertinent  beast"  turn  a  corner,  and 


36  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OP 

hearing  the  sound  of  empty  metal  dancing  over  the 
street,  naturally  judged  it  better  to  secure  the  box, 
than  derange  his  propriety  further  by  an  idle  pursuit. 
Contenting  himself,  therefore,  with  sending  an  ejacula- 
tion after  the  vagabond  to  the  purpose  just  quoted,  and 
fixing  his  eye  upon  the  affecting  movable  now  station- 
ary, he  delicately  stepped  off  the  pavement  towards  it, 
with  inward  congratulation  upon  its  not  being  muddy, 
when  imagine  his  dismay  and  petrifaction,  on  lifting 
up,  not  the  identical  box,  but  one  of  the  commonest 
order !  To  be  brief,  it  was  of  pewter  ;  and  upon 
the  lid  of  it,  with  after-dinner  fork,  was  scratched  a 
question,  which,  in  the  immediate  state  of  Mr.  Blun- 
dell's  sensations,  almost  appeared  to  have  a  supernatu- 
ral meaning  ;  to  wit :  "  How's  vour  mother  ?" 

Had  it  been  possible  for  a  man  of  the  delicacy  of 
Mr.  Blundell's  life  and  proportions  to  give  chase  to  a 
thief,  or  had  he  felt  it  of  the  least  use  to  raise  a  hue 
and  cry  in  a  gentlemanly  tone  of  voice — or,  indeed,  in 
any  voice  not  incompatible  with  his  character — doubt- 
less he  would  have  done  so  with  inconceivable  swift- 
ness ;  but,  as  it  was,  he  stood  as  if  thunderstruck  ;  and, 
in  an  instant,  there  were  a  dozen  persons  about  him, 
all  saying—"  What  is  it  ?"     "  Which  ?"     "  Who  ?" 

Mr.  Blundell,  in  his  first  emotions,  hardly  knew 
"what  it  was"  himself :  the  "which"  did  not  puzzle 
him  quite  so  much,  as  often  as  he  looked  upon  the 
snuff-box  ;  but  the  "  who"  he  was  totally  at  a  loss  to 
conjecture  ;  and  so  were  his  condolers. 

"What — was  it  that  chap  as  run  agin  you,"  said 
one,  "jist  as  I  was  coming  in  at  t'other  end  of  the 
street  ?  Lord  love  you  !  you  might  as  well  run  arter 
last  year.     He's  a  mile  off  by  this  time." 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  37 

"  If  the  gentleman  '11  give  me  a  shilling,"  said  a  boy, 
"  ni  run  arter  him." 

"  Get  out,  you  young  dog,"  said  the  first  speaker ; 
"  d'ye  think  the  gentleman's  a  fool  t" 

"  It  is  a  circumstance,"  said  Mr.  Blundell,  grateful 
for  this  question,  and  attempting  a  breathless  smile, 
"  which — might  have — surprised — anybody." 

"  What  sort  of  a  man  w^as  it  ?"  emphatically  in- 
quired a  judicioos-looking  person,  jerking  his  face  into 
Mr.  Blundell's,  and  then  bending  his  ear  close  to  his, 
as  though  he  were  deaf. 

"  I— declare,"  said  Mr.  Blundell,  "  that  I  can— hardly 
say,  the  thing  was  so  very  unexpected  ;  but — from  the 
glimpse  I  had  of  him,  I  should — really  say — he  looked 
like  a  gentleman — (here  Mr.  Blundell  lifted  up  his  eye- 
brows,)— not  indeed  a  perfect  gentleman." 

"  I  dare  say  not,  sir,"  returned  the  judicious-looking 
person. 

"  What  is  all  this  ?"  inquired  a  loud  individual,  el- 
bowing his  way  through. 

"  A  gentleman  been  robbed,"  said  the  boy,  "  by  an- 
other gentleman." 

"  Another  gentleman  ?" 

"  Yes  ;  not  a  perfect  gentleman,  he  says  ;  but  highly 
respectable." 

Here,  to  the  equal  surprise  and  grief  of  the  sufferer, 
the  crowd  laughed  and  began  joking  with  one  another. 
None  but  the  judicious-looking,  deaf  individual  seemed 
to  keep  his  countenance. 

"  Well,"  quoth  the  loud  man,  "  here's  a  policeman 
coming  at  the  end  of  the  street ;  the  gentleman  had 
better  apply  to  him." 

"Yes,  sir,"  said  the  deaf  friend,  "that's  your  re- 
source, and  God  bless  you  with  it  !"     So  saying,  he 

298«X>3 


I 


38  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

grasped  Mr.  Blundell's  hand  with  a  familiarity  more 
sympathizing  than  respectful ;  and  treading  at  the  same 
time  upon  his  toes  in  the  most  horrible  manner,  begged 
his  pardon  and  went  away. 

Mr.  Blundell  stooped  down,  partly  to  rub  his  toes, 
and  partly  to  hide  his  confusion,  and  the  policeman 
came  up.  The  matter  was  explained  to  the  police- 
man, all  the  while  he  was  hearing  the  sufferer,  by  a 
dozen  voices,  and  the  question  was  put,  "  What  sort  of 
a  man  was  it  ?" 

"  Here's  a  gentleman,"  said  Mr.  Blundell,  "  who  saw 
him." 

The  policeman  looked  about  for  the  witness,  but 
nobody  answered ;  and  it  was  discovered,  that  all 
the  first  speakers  had  vanished, — loud  man,  boy,  and 
all. 

"  Have  you  lost  anything  else,  sir  ?"  inquired  the  po- 
liceman. 

"  Bless  me !"  said  Mr.  Blundell,  turning  very  red, 
and  feeling  his  pockets,  "  I  really — positively  I  do  fear 
— that " 

"  You  can  remember,  sir,  what  you  had  with  you 
when  you  came  out  ?" 

"  One  handkerchief,"  continued  Mr.  Blundell,  "  has 
certainly  gone  ;  and " 

"  YouT  watch  is  safe,"  returned  the  policeman,  "for 
it  is  hanging  out  of  your  waistcoat.  Very  lucky  you 
fastened  it.     Have  you  got  j^our  purse,  sir  ?" 

"  The  purse  was  under  the  watch,"  breathed  Mr. 
Blundell;  "therefore  I  have  no  doubt  that — but  I  re- 
gret to  say — that  I  do  not — feel  my  ring." 

A  laugh,  and  cries  of  "  too  bad." 

"  A  man  shook  your  hand,  sir,"  said  the  policeman ; 
"did  you  not  feel  it  then  ?" 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  39 

"I  did  not,  indeed,"  replied  Mr.  Blundeil ;  "I  felt 
nothing  but  the  severity  of  the  squeeze." 

"  And  you  had  a  brooch,  I  perceive." 

The  brooch  was  gone  too. 

"  Why  don't  you  run  arter  him,"  cried  a  very  little 
boy  in  an  extremely  high  and  loud  voice,  which  set 
the  crowd  in  a  roar. 

The  policeman,  as  speedily  as  he  could,  dispersed 
the  crowd,  and  accompanied  Mr.  Blundeil  part  of  his 
way  ;  whither  the  latter  knew  not,  for  he  walked  along 
as  if  he  had  taken  too  much  wine.  Indeed,  he  already 
doubted  whether  he  should  proceed  to  recruit  himself 
at  his  friend's  table,  or  avoid  the  shame  of  telling  his 
story,  and  return  home.  The  policeman  helped  to  al- 
lay his  confusion  a  little  by  condolence,  by  promises  of 
search,  and  accounts  of  daring  robberies  practised 
upon  the  most  knowing ;  and  our  hero,  in  the  gratitude 
of  his  heart,  would  have  given  him  his  card  ;  but  he  now 
found  that  his  pocket-book  was  gone  !  His  companion 
rubbed  his  face  to  conceal  a  smile,  and  received  with 
great  respect,  an  oral  communication  of  the  address. 
Mr.  Blundeil,  to  sliow  that  his  spirit  as  a  gentleman 
was  not  subdued,  told  him  there  was  half-a-crown  for 
him  on  his  calling. 

Alone,  and  meditative,  and  astonished,  and,  as  it 
were,  half  undone,  Mr.  Blundeil  continued  his  jour- 
ney towards  the  dinner,  having  made  up  his  mind, 
that  as  his  watch-chain  was  still  apparent,  and  had  the 
watch  attached  to  it,  and  as  the  disorder  of  his  nerves, 
if  not  quite  got  rid  of,  might  easily  be  referred  to  del- 
icacy of  health,  he  would  refresh  his  spirits  with  some 
of  that  excellent  port,  which  always  made  him  feel 
twice  the  man  he  was. 

Nor  was   this  judicious  conclusion   prevented,  but 


40  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

rather  irritated  and  enforced,  by  one  of  those  sudden 
showers,  which  in  this  fickle  cHmate  are  apt  to  come 
pouring  down  in  the  midst  of  the  finest  weather,  es- 
pecially upon  the  heels  of  April.  This,  to  be  sure,  was 
a  tremendous  one;  though,  by  diverting  our  hero's 
chagrin,  and  putting  him  upon  his  mettle,  it  only  made 
him  gather  up  his  determination,  and  look  extremely 
counter-active  and  frowning.  Would  to  Heaven  his 
nerves  had  been  as  braced  up  as  his  face  !  The  gut- 
ters wei'e  suddenly  a  torrent ;  the  pavement  a  dancing 
wash;  the  wind  a  whirlwind  ;  the  women  all  turned 
into  distressed  Venuses  de  Medici.  Everybody  got  up 
in  door-ways,  or  called  a  coach. 

Unfortunately  no  coach  was  to  be  had.  The  hacks 
went  by,  insolently  taking  no  notice.  Mr.  Blundell's 
determination  was  put  to  a  nonplus.  The  very  door- 
ways in  the  street  where  he  was,  being  of  that  modern, 
skimping,  inhospitable,  penny-saving,  done-by-contract 
order,  so  unlike  the  good  old  projecting  ones  with  ped- 
iments and  ample  thresholds,  denied  security  even  to 
his  thin  and  shrinking  person.  His  pumps  were  speed- 
ily as  wet  through  as  if  they  had  been  made  of  paper; 
and  what  rendered  this  ruin  of  his  hopes  the  more  pro- 
voking, was,  that  the  sunshine  suddenly  burst  forth 
again,  as  powerful  as  the  rain  which  had  interrupted 
it.  A  coach,  however,  he  now  thought,  would  be  forth- 
coming ;  and  it  would  at  least  take  him  home  again ; 
while  the  rain,  and  "  the  previous  inability  to  get  one," 
would  furnish  a  good  excuse  for  returning. 

But  no  coach  was  to  be  had  so  speedily,  and  mean- 
time his  feet  were  wet,  and  there  was  danger  of  cold. 
"  As  I  am  wet,"  thought  Mr.  Blundell,  sighing,  "  a  little 
motion,  at  all  events,  is  best.  It  would  be  better,  con- 
sidering I  am  so,  not  to  stop  at  all,  nor  perhaps  get 


CARFINGTON    I5LUNDELL,    ESQUIRE,  41 

into  a  coach  ;  but  then  how  am  I  to  get  home  in  these 
shoes,  and  this  highly  evening  dress?  I  shall  be  a 
sight,  I  shall  have  those  cursed  little  boys  after  me. 
Perhaps  I  shall  again  be  hustled." 

Bewildered  with  contending  emotions  of  shame, 
grief,  disappointment,  anger,  nay  hunger,  and  the  sym- 
pathy between  his  present  pumps  and  departed  ele- 
gancies, our  hero  picked  his  way  as  delicately  as  he 
could  along  the  curb-stones ;  and  turning  a  corner,  had 
the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  hackney-coach  slowly  moving 
in  the  distance,  and  the  man  holding  forth  his  whip  to 
the  pedestrians,  evidently  disengaged.  The  back  of 
it,  to  be  sure,  was  towards  him,  and  the  street  long, 
and  narrow,  and  very  muddy.  But  no  matter.  An 
object's  an  object ; — a  little  more  mud  could  not  signi- 
fy :  our  light-footed  sufferer  began  running. 

Now  runners,  unfortunately,  are  not  always  pre- 
pared for  Corners ;  especially  when  their  anxiety  has  an 
object  right  before  it,  and  the  haste  is  in  proportion. 
Mr.  Blundell,  almost  before  he  was  aware  of  it,  found 
himself  in  the  middle  of  a  flock  of  sheep.  There  was 
a  hackney-coach  also  in  the  way ;  the  dog  was  yelping, 
and  leaping  hither  and  thither;  and  the  drover,  in  a 
very  loud  state  of  mind,  hooting,  whistling,  swearing, 
and  tossing  up  his  arms. 

Mr.  Blundell,  it  is  certain,  could  not  have  got  into  a 
position  less  congenial  to  his  self-possession,  or  more 
calculated  to  commit  his  graces  in  the  eyes  of  the  un- 
propitiated.  And  the  sheep,  instead  of  sympathizing 
with  him,  as  in  their  own  distress  they  might  (poetical- 
ly) be  supposed  to  do,  positively  seemed  in  the  league 
to  distress  his  stockings,  and  not  at  all  to  consider  even 
his  higher  garment.  They  ran  against  him ;  they 
bolted  at  him :  they  leaped  at  him  ;  or  if  they  seemed 


42  TFIE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

to  avoid  him,  it  was  only  to  brush  him  with  muddier 
sides,  and  to  let  in  upon  his  wealvend  forces  the  fright- 
ful earnestness  of  the  dog,  and  the  inconsiderate,  if  not 
somewhat  suspicious,  circumambiences  of  the  coach- 
man's whip. 

Mr.  Blundell  suddenly  disappeared. 

He  fell  down,  and  the  sheep  began  jumping  over 
him  !  The  spectators,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  were  in  an 
ecstacy. 

You  know,  observant  reader,  the  way  in  which 
sheep  carry  themselves  on  abrupt  and  saltatory  occa- 
sions ;  how  they  follow  one  another  with  a  sort  of 
spurious  and  involuntary  energy ;  what  a  pretended 
air  of  determination  they  have  ;  how  they  really  have 
it,  as  far  as  example  induces,  and  fear  propels  them  ; 
with  what  a  heavy  kind  of  lightness  they  take  the 
leap  ;  how  brittle  in  the  legs,  lumpish  in  the  body,  and 
insignificant  in  the  face  ;  how  they  seem  to  quiver 
with  apprehension,  while  they  are  bold  in  act ;  and 
with  what  a  provoking  and  massy  springiness  they 
brush  by  you,  if  you  happen  to  be  in  the  way,  as 
though  they  wouldn't  avoid  the  terrors  of  your  pres- 
ence, if  possible, — or  rather,  as  if  they  would  avoid  it 
with  all  their  hearts,  but  insulted  you  out  of  a  despera- 
tion of  inability.  Baas  intermix  their  pensive  objec- 
tions with  the  hurry,  and  a  sound  of  feet  as  of  water. 
Then,  ever  and  anon,  come  the  fiercer  leaps,  the  con- 
glomerating circuits,  the  dorsal  visitations,  the  yelps 
and  tongue-lollings  of  the  dog,  lean  and  earnest  minis- 
ter of  compulsion  ;  and  loud,  and  dominant  over  all 
exult  the  no  less  yelping  orders  of  the  drover, — indefi- 
nite, it  is  true,  but  expressive, — rustical  cogencies  of 
00  and   ou,  the  intelligible  jargon  of  the  Corydon  or 

Thyrsis  of  Chalk-Ditch,   who  cometh,  final  and  hu 

11 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  43 

mane,  with  a  bit  of  candle  in  his  hat,  a  spike  at  the 
end  of  his  stick,  and  a  hoarseness  full  of  pastoral  catarrh 
and  juniper. 

Thrice  (as  the  poets  say)  did  Carfington  Blundell, 
Esquire,  raise  his  unhappy  head  out  of  the  melee,  hat- 
less  and  muddied ;  thrice  did  the  spectators  ^hout ;  and 
thrice  did  he  sink  back  from  the  shouts  and  the  sheep, 
in  calamitous  acquiescence. 

"  Lie  still,  you  fool !"  said  the  hackney-coachman, 
"  and  they  '11  jump  easy." 

"  Jump  easy  1"  Heavens  !  how  strange  are  the 
vicissitudes  of  human  affairs.  To  think  of  Mr.  Blun- 
dell only  but  yesterday,  or  this  evening  rather, — nay, 
not  an  hour  ago, — his  day  fine,  his  hopes  immense,  his 
w^hole  life  lapped  up,  as  it  were,  in  cotton  and  lavender, 
his  success  elegant,  his  evening  about  to  be  spent  in  a 
room  full  of  admirers  ;  and  now,  his  very  prosperity 
is  to  consist  in  lying  still  in  the  mud,  and  letting  sheep 
jump  over  him ! 

Then  to  be  called  a  "  fool :"— "  Lie  still,  you  fool r 

Mr.  Blundell  could  not  stand  it  any  longer  (as  the 
Irishman  said)  ;  so  he  rose  up  just  in  time  to  secure  a 
kick  from  the  last  sheep,  and  emerged  amidst  a  roar 
of  congratulation. 

He  got  as  quickly  as  possible  into  a  shop,  which 
luckily  communicated  with  a  back  street ;  and,  as 
things  generally  mend  when  they  reach  their  worst 
(such  at  least  was  the  consolatory  reflection  which 
our  hero's  excess  of  suffering  was  glad  to  seize  hold 
of),  a  hackne; -coach  was  standing  close  to  him,  empty, 
and  disengaged.  It  has  just  let  a  gentleman  down 
next  door. 

Our  hero  breathed  a  great  breath,  returned  his 
handkerchief  into  his  pocket  (which  had  been  made  a 


44  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    oF 

sop  of  to  EO  purpose),  and  uttering  the  word  "accz- 
rfenf,"  and  giving  rapid  orders  where  to  drive  to,  was 
hastening  to  hide  himself  from  fate  and  the  little  boys 
within  the  vehicle,  when,  to  his  intense  amazement, 
the  coachman  stopped  him. 

"  Hollo  !"  quoth  the  Jarveion  mystery  ;  "  what  are 
you  arter?" 

"  Going  to  get  in,"  said  Blundell. 

"  I'm  bless'd  if  you  do,"  said  the  coachman. 

"How,  fellow!  Not  get  in?"  cried  Mr.  Blundell, 
irritated  that  so  mean  an  obstacle  should  present  itself 
to  his  great  wants.  "  What's  your  coach  for,  sir,  if  it 
isn't  to  accommodate  gentlemen  ; — to  accommodate 
awj/body,  I  may  say  ?" 

Now  it  happened,  that  the  coachman,  besides  hav- 
ing had  his  eye  caught  by  another  fare,  was  a  very 
irritable  coachman,  given  to  repenting  or  being  out  of 
temper  all  day,  for  the  drinking  he  solaced  himself 
with  over  night;  and  he  didn't  choose  to  be  called 
"  fellow,"  especially  by  an  'individual  with  a  sort  of 
dancing-master  appearance,  with  his  hat  jammed  in, 
his  silk  stockings  untimely,  and  his  whole  very  equivo- 
cal man  all  over  mud.  So  jerking  him  aside  with  his 
elbow,  and  then  turning  about,  with  the  steps  behind 
him,  and  facing  the  unhappy  Blundell,  he  thus,  with  a 
terrible  slowness  of  articulation,  bespoke  him,  the 
countenances  of  both  getting  redder  as  he  spoke : — 

"  And  do  you  think  now, — Master  '  Fellow,'  or  Fid- 
dler, or  Mudlark, — or  whatsomever  else  you  call  your- 
self,— that  I'm  going  to  have  the  new  seats  and  lining 
o'  my  coach  dirtied  so  as  not  to  be  fit  to  be  seen,  by 
such  a  TRUMPERY  BEAST,  as  you  are  ?" 

"  It  is  for  light  sorrows  to  speak,"  saith  the  philoso- 
pher ;  "  great  ones  are  struck  dumb."     Mr.  Blundell 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  45 

was  struck  dumb  ;  dumber  than  ever  he  had  conceived 
it  possible  for  a  gentleman  to  be  struck.  It  is  little  to 
say  that  he  felt  as  if  heaven  and  earth  had  come  to- 
gether. There  was  no  heaven  and  earth  ;  nothing 
but  space  and  silence.  Mr.  Blundell's  world  was  an-, 
nihilated. 

Alas  !  it  was  restored  to  him  by  a  shout  from  the 
"  cursed  little  boys."  Mr  Blundell  mechanically  turned 
away,  and  began  retracing  his  steps  homeward,  half 
conscious,  and  all  a  spectacle  ;  the  little  boys  follow- 
ing and  preceding  him,  just  leaving  a  hollow  space 
for  his  advances,  and  looking  back,  as  they  jogged,  in 
his  face.  He  turned  into  a  shop,  and  begged  to  be 
allowed  to  wait  a  little  in  the  back  parlor.  He  was 
humanely  accommodated  with  soap  and  water,  and  a 
cloth ;  and  partly  out  of  shame  at  returning  through 
the  gazes  of  the  shopman,  he  stayed  there  long  enough 
to  iret  rid  of  his  tormentors.  No  £Treat-coat,  however, 
was  to  be  had  ;  no  shoes  that  fitted  ;  no  stockings  ; 
and  thounfh  he  was  no  longer  in  his  worst  and  wettest 
condition,  he  could  not  gather  up  courage  enough  to 
send  for  another  coach.  In  the  very  idea  of  a  coach- 
man he  beheld  something  that  upturned  all  his  previ- 
ous existence  : — a  visitation — a  Gorgon — a  hypochon- 
dria. "Don't  talk  to  me  like  a  death's  head,"  said 
FalstafTto  Doll  Tenrsheet,  when  she  reminded  him  of 
his  age.  Mr.  Blundell  would  have  said,  "  Don't  talk 
to  me  like  a  hackney-coachman."  The  death's  head 
and  cross-bones  were  superseded  in  his  imagination 
by  an  old  hat,  wisp  of  hay,  and  arms  akimbo. 

Our  hero  had  washed  his  hands  and  face,  had  set  his 
beaver  to  rights,  had  effaced  (as  he  thought)  the  worst 
part  of  his  stains,  and  succeeded  in  exchanging  his 
boot-pocket-handkorchief   for    a    cleaner    one ;    with 


46  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OP 

which,  alternately  concealing  his  face  as  if  he  had  a 
toothache,  or  holding  it  carelessly  before  his  habili- 
ments, he  was  fain,  now  that  the  day  was  declining,  to 
see  if  he  could  not  pick  his  way  home  again,  not  quite 
intolerably.  It  was  a  delicate  emergency:  but  experi- 
ence having  somewhat  rallied  his  forces,  and  gifted 
him  with  that  sudden  world  of  reflection  which  is  pro- 
duced by  adversity,  he  bethought  himself,  not  only  that 
he  must  yield,  like  all  other  great  men,  to  necessity, 
but  that  he  was  a  personage  fitted  for  nice  and  ulti- 
mate contrivances.  He  was  of  opinion,  that  although 
the  passengers,  if  they  chose  to  look  at  him,  could  not 
but  be  aware  that  he  had  sustained  a  mischance  com- 
mon to  the  meanest,  yet,  in  consideration  of  his  air  and 
manners,  perhaps  they  would  not  choose  to  look  at  him 
very  much ;  or  if  they  did,  their  surprise  would  be 
divided  between  pity  for  his  mishap,  and  admiration 
of  his  superiority  to  it. 

Certainly  the  passengers  who  met  him  did  look  a 
good  deal.  He  could  not  but  see  it,  though  he  saw  as 
httle  as  he  could  help.  How  those  who  came  behind 
him  looked,  it  would  have  been  a  needless  cruelty  to 
himself  to  ascertain;  so  he  never  turned  his  head.  No 
little  boys  thought  it  worth  their  while  to  follow  his 
steps,  which  was  a  great  comfort ;  though  whenever 
any  observers  of  that  class  met  him,  strange  and  most- 
disrespectful  w^ere  their  grins  and  ejaculations.  "  Here's 
a  Guy !"  was  the  most  innocent  of  their  salutes.  A 
drunken  sailor  startled  him  with  asking  how  the  land 
lay  about  "  Tower  Ditch  ?"  And  an  old  Irishwoman, 
in  explanation  of  his  appearance  to  the  wondering  eye'n 
of  her  companions,  defined  him  to  be  one  that  was  so 
fond  of  "  crame  o'  the  valley,"  that  he  must  needs  be 
"roullins:  in  it." 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  47 

Had  "  cabs"  been  then,  Mr.  Blundell  would  unques- 
tionably have  made  a  compromise  with  his  horror  of 
charioteers,  and  on  the  strength  of  the  mitigated  de- 
facements of  his  presence,  have  risked  a  summons  to 
the  whip.  As  it  was,  he  averted  his  look  from  every 
hackney-coach,  and  congratulated  himself  as  he  began 
Hearing  home — home,  sweet  even  to  the  most  insipid 
of  the  Blundells,  and  never  so  sweet  as  now,  though 
the  first  thoughts  of  returning  to  it  had  been  accompa- 
nied with  agonies  of  mortification.  "  In  a  few  min- 
utes," thought  he, "  I  shall  be  seen  no  more  for  the  day 
(O  strange  felicity  for  a  dandy !) ;  in  a  few  minutes  I 
shall  be  in  other  clothes,  other  shoes,  and  another  train 
of  feelings — not  the  happiest  of  men,  perhaps,  retro- 
spectively, but  how  blest  in  the  instant  and  by  com- 
parison !  In  a  few  minutes  all  will  be  silence,  security 
dryness.  I  shall  be  in  my  arm-chair,  in  my  slippers — 
shall  have  a  fire ;  and  I  will  have  a  mutton-cutlet,  hot — 
and  refresh  myself  with  a  bottle  of  the -wine  my  friend 
Mimpin  sent  me." 

Alas  !  what  are  the  hopes  of  man,  even  when  he 
concludes  that  things  7nust  alter  for  the  better,  seeing 
that  they  are  at  their  worst  ?  How  is  he  to  be  quite 
sure,  even  after  he  has  been  under  sheep  in  a  gutter 
that  things  have  been  at  their  worst? — that  his  cup  of 
calamity,  full  as  it  seemed,  is  not  to  be  succeeded  by, 
or  wonderfully  expanded  into,  a  still  larger  cup,  with  a 
remaining  draught  of  bitterness,  amazing,  not  to  have 
been  thought  of,  making  the  sick  throat  shudder,  and 
the  heart  convulse  ? 

Scarcely  had  the  sweet  images  of  the  mutton-cutlet 
and  wine  risen  in  prospect  upon  the  tired  soul  of  our 
hero,  than  he  approached  the  corner  of  the  street  round 
which  he  was  to  turn  into  his  own  ;  and  scarcelv  haa 


48  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OP 

he  experienced  that  inward  transport,  that  chuckle  of 
the  heart,  with  which  tired  homesters  are  in  the  habit 
of  turning  those  corners, — in  short,  scarcely  had  his 
entire  person  manifested  itself  round  the  corner,  and 
his  eyes  lifted  themselves  up  to  behold  the  side  of  the 
blessed  threshold,  than  he  heard,  or  rather  was  saluted 
and  drowned  with  a  roar  of  voices  the  most  huge,  the 
most  unexpected,  the  most  terrific,  the  most  weighty, 
the  most  world-like,  the  most  grave  yet  merry,  the 
most  intensely  stupefying,  that  it  would  have  been  pos- 
sible for  Sancho  himself  to  conceive,  after  all  his  expe- 
rience with  Don  Quixote. 

It  now  struck  Mr.  Blundell  that,  with  a  half-consci- 
ous, half-unconscious  eye,  he  had  seen  people  running 
towards  the  point  which  he  had  just  attained,  and 
others  looking  out  of  their  windows ;  but  as  they  did 
not  look  at  him,  and  every  one  passed  him  without 
attention,  how  was  he  to  dream  of  what  was  going 
forward ;  much  more,  that  it  had  any  relation  to  him- 
self? Frightful  discovery  !  which  he  was  destined 
speedily  to  make,  though  not  on  the  instant. 

The  crowd  (for  almost  the  whole  street  was  one 
dense  population)  seemed  in  an  agony  of  delight. 
They  roared,  they  shrieked,  they  screamed,  they 
writhed,  they  bent  themselves  double,  they  threw  about 
their  arms,  they  seemed  as  if  they  would  have  gone 
into  fits.  Mr.  Blundell's  bewilderment  was  so  com- 
plete, that  he  walked  soberly  along,  steadied  by  the 
very  amazement ;  and  as  he  advanced,  they  at  once, 
as  in  a  dream,  appeared  to  him  both  to  make- way  for 
him,  and  to  advance  towards  him  ;  to  make  way  in  the 
particular,  but  advance  in  the  mass  ;  to  admit  him  with 
respect,  and  overwhelm  him  with  familiarity. 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven  !"  thought  he,  "  what  can 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  49 

it  all  be  1  It  is  impossible  the  crowd  can  have  any 
connection  with  me  in  the  first  instance.  I  cou'd  not 
have  brought  them  here  ;  and  my  appearance,  though 
unpleasant,  and  perhaps  somewhat  ludicrous,  cannot 
account  for  such  a  perfect  mass  and  conspiracy  of  as- 
tonishment.    What  is  it  ?" 

And  all  the  way  he  advanced,  did  Mr.  Blundell's 
eyes,  and  manner,  and  whole  person,  exhibit  a  sort  of 
visible  echo  to  this  internal  question  of  his — What  is 
it? 

The  house  was  about  three-quarters  of  the  way  up 
the  street,  which  was  not  a  long  one  ;  and  it  stood  on 
the  same  side  on  which  our  unfortunate  pedestrian  had 
turned. 

As  he  approached  the  denser  part  of  the  crowd, 
words  began  to  develop  themselves  to  his  ear — "  Well, 
this  beats  all !"  "  Well,  of  all  the  sights  !"  "  Why,  it's 
the  man  himself,  the  very  man,  poor  devil !"  "  Look 
at  his  face  !"  "  What  the  devil  can  he  have  been  at?" 
"  Look  at  the  pianoforte  man — he's  coming  up  !" 

Blundell  mechanically  pursued  his  path,  mystified  to 
the  last  depths  of  astonishment,  and  scarcely  seeing 
what  he  saw.  Go  forward  he  felt  that  he  must ;  to 
turn  back  was  not  only  useless,  but  he  experienced  the 
very  fascination  of  terror  and  necessity.  He  would 
iiave  proceeded  to  his  lodgings,  had  Death  himself 
stood  in  the  door-way.  Meantime  up  comes  this 
aforesaid  mystery,  the  pianoforte  man. 

"  Here's  a  pretty  business  you've  been  getting  us 
into,"  said  this  amazing  stranger. 

"What  business?"  ejaculated  Mr.  Blundell. 

"  What  business  ?  Why,  all  this  here  d d  busi- 
ness— all  this  blackguard  crowd — and  my  master's 
ruined  pianoforto.     A  pretty  jobation  I  shall  get;  and 

\oi,.  I.  3 


50  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

I  should  like  to  know  what  for,  and  who's  to  pay 
me?" 

"  In  the  name  of  God  !"  said  our  hero,  "  what  is 
it?" 

"  Why,  don't  you  see  what  it  is  ? — a  hoax,  and  be 

d d  to  it.     It's  a  mercy  I  wasn't  dashed  to  pieces 

when  these  rascals  tipped  over  the  pianoforte ;  and 
there  it  lies,  with  three  of  its  legs  smashed  and  a  cor- 
ner split.  I  should  like  to  know  what  I'm  to  have  for 
the  trouble  ?" 

"  And  I,"  said  the  upholsterer's  man. 

"  And  I,"  said  the  glass-man. 

"  And  this  here  coffin,"  said  the  undertaker. 

There  had  been  a  hoax  sure  enough ;  and  a  tremen- 
dous hoax  it  was.  A  plentiful  space  before  the  dooi 
was  strewed  with  hay,  boxes,  and  baskets.  There 
stood  the  coffin,  upright,  like  a  mummy  ;  and  here  lay 
the  pianoforte,  a  dumb  and  shattered  discord. 

Mr.  Blundell  had  now  arrived  at  his  door,  but  did 
not  even  think  of  going  in  ;  that  is  to  say,  not  instantly. 
He  mechanically  stopped,  as  if  to  say  or  do  some- 
thing :  for  something  was  plainly  expected  of  him  ;  but 
what  it  was  he  knew  not,  except  that  he  mechanically 
put  his  hand  towards  his  purse,  and  as  mechanically 
withdrew  it. 

The  crowd  all  the  while  seemed  to  concentrate 
their  forces  towards  him, — all  laughing,  murmuring, 
staring — all  eager,  and  pressing  on  one  another ;  yet 
leaving  a  clear  way  for  the  gentleman,  his  tradesmen, 
and  his  goods. 

What  was  to  be  done  1 

Mr.  Blundell  drew  a  sigh  from  the  bottom  of  his 
heart,  as  though  it  were  his  last  sigh  or  his  last  six- 
pence ;  yet  he  drew  forth  no  sixpence.     Extremes  met, 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  5J 

as   usual.     The   consummation  of  distress  produced 
calmness  and  reflection. 

"  You  must  plainly  perceive,  gentlemen,"  said  oui 
hero,  "  that  it  could  be  no  fault  of  mine." 

"  I  don't  kno\v  that,"  said  the  pianoforte  man.  The 
crowd  laughed  at  the  man's  rage,  and  at  once  cheered 
him  on,  and  proVoked  him  against  themselves.  He 
seemed  as  if  he  did  not  know  which  he  should  run  at 
first, — his  involuntary  customer,  or  the  "  cursed  little 
boys." 

"  Zounds,  sir  !"  said  the  man,  "  you  oughtn't  to  have 
been  hoaxed." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  said  the  parliamentary  crowd. 

"  I  mean,"  continued  he,  "  that  none  but  some  d d 

disagreeable  chap,  or  infernal  fool,  is  ever  treated  in 
this  here  manner." 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  reiterated  the  bystanders.  "  Come,  that's 
better  than  the  last." 

"  Which  is  the  biggest  fool  ?"  exclaimed  a  boy,  in 
that  altitude  of  voice  which  is  the  most  sovereign  of 
provocations  to  grown  ears. 

The  man  ran  at  the  boy,  first  making  a  gesture  to 
our  hero,  as  much  as  to  say,  "I'll  be  with  you  again 
presently."  The  crowd  hustled  the  man  back ; — the 
undertaker  had  seized  the  opportunity  of  repeating  that 
he  "  hoped  his  honor  would  consider  his  trouble  ;" — the 
glass-man  and  the  upholsterer  were  on  each  side  of 
him  ; — and  suddenly  the  heavy  shout  recommenced, 
for  a  new  victim  had  turned  the  corner, — a  stranger  to 
what  was  taking  place, — a  man  with  some  sort  of  mil- 
liner's or  florist's  box.  The  crowd  doated  on  his  face. 
First,  he  turned  the  corner  with  the  usual  look  of  indif- 
ferent hurry ;  then  he  began  to  have  an  inquiring  ex- 
pression,  but   without    the    least    intimation    that   the 


52  THE    BAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

catastrophe  applied  to  himself;  then  the  stare  became 
wider,  and  a  little  doubtful ;  and  then  he  stopped  short, 
as  if  to  reconnoitre — at  which  the  laugh  was  prodi- 
gious. But  the  new-comer  was  wise ;  for  he  asked 
what  was  the  matter,  of  the  first  person  he  came  up 
with ;  and  learning  how  the  case  stood,  had  energy 
enough  to  compound  with  one  more  hearty  laugh,  in 
preference  to  a  series  of  mortifications.  He  fairly 
turned  back,  pursued  by  a  roar ;  and,  oh  !  how  he 
loved  the  corner,  as  he  went  round  it !  Every  hair  at 
the  back  of  his  head  had  seemed  to  tingle  with  con- 
sciousness and  annoyance.  He  felt  as  if  he  saw  with 
his  shoulder-blades ; — as  if  he  was  face  to  face  at  the 
back  of  his  hat. 

At  length,  the  misery  and  perplexity  of  Mr.  Blundeli 
reached  a  climax  so  insurmountable,  that  he  would 
have  taken  out  his  second  and  (as  he  thought)  re- 
maining pocket-handkerchief,  if  even  that  consolation 
had  been  left  him  ;  for  the  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 
But  it  was  gone  !  The  handkerchief,  however,  itself, 
did  not  distress  him.  "  Nothing  could  touch  him  fur- 
ther." He  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  ends  of  the  fingers 
of  his  gloves,  and  stood  mute, — a  perplexity  to  the  per- 
plexed,— a  pity  even  to  the  "  little  boys." 

Now  tears  are  very  critical  things,  and  must  be  cau- 
tiously shed,  especially  in  critical  ages.  In  a  private 
way,  provided  you  have  locked  the  door,  and  lost 
three  children,  you  may  be  supposed  to  shed  a  few 
without  detriment  to  your  dignity ;  and  in  the  heroical 
ages,  the  magnitude  and  candor  of  passion  permitted 
tears  openly,  the  feelings  then  being  supposed  to  be 
equally  strong  in  all  respects,  and  a  man  to  have  as 
much  right  to  weep  as  a  woman.  But  how  lucky  was 
it  for  poor  Blundeli  that  no  brother  dandy  saw  him  ! 


CARFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESUUIRE.  53 

His  tormentors  did  not  know  whether  to  pity  or  des- 
pise him.  The  pianoforte  man,  with  an  oath,  was  going 
to  move  off;  but,  on  looking  again  at  his  broken  in- 
strument, remained,  and  urged  compensation.  The 
others  expressed  their  sorrow,  but  repeated  that  they 
hoped  his  honor  would  consider  them  ;  and  they  re- 
peated it  the  more,  because  his  tears  raised  expecta- 
tions of  the  money  which  he  would  be  weak  enough  to 
disburse. 

Alas  !  they  did  not  know  that  the  dislike  of  disburse- 
ment, and  the  total  absence  of  all  sympathy  with  others 
in  our  weeping  hero  (in  this  as  in  other  respects,  very 
different  from  the  tear-shedding  Achilles),  was  the 
cause  of  all  which  they  and  he  were  at  this  moment 
enduring ;  for  it  was  the  inability  to  bring  out  his 
money  which  kept  Mr.  Blundell  lingering  outside  his 
lodging,  wnen  he  might  have  taken  his  claimants  into 
it;  and  it  was  the  jovial  irascibility  of  an  acquaintance 
of  his,  which,  in  disgust  at  his  evasion  of  dinner-giv- 
ings,  and  his  repeatedly  shirking  his  part  of  the  score 
at  some  entertainments  at  which  he  pretended  to  con- 
sider himself  a  guest,  had  brought  this  astounding  ca- 
lamity to  his  door. 

Happily  for  these  "  last  infirmities"  of  a  mind  which 
certainly  could  not  be  called  "noble,"  there  are  hearts 
so  full  of  natural  sympathy,  that  the  very  greatest 
proofs  of  the  want  of  it  will  but  produce,  in  certain 
extremities,  a  pity  which  takes  the  want  itself  for  a 
claim  and  a  misfortune ;  and  this  sympathy  now  de- 
scended to  Mr.  Blundell's  aid,  like  another  goddess 
from  heaven,  in  a  shape  not  unworthy  of  it. — to-wit, 
that  of  the  pretty  daughter  of  his  landlord,  a  little 
buxom  thing,  less  handsome  than  good-natured,  and 
with  a  heart  that  might  have  served  to  cut  up  into  cor- 


54  THE    DAY    OF    THE    DISASTERS    OF 

dial  bosoms  for  half  a  dozen  fine  ladies.  She  had  once 
nursed  our  hero  in  sickness,  and  to  say  the  truth,  had 
not  been  disinclined  to  fall  in  love  with  him,  and  be 
made  "  a' lady,"  half  out  of  pure  pity  at  his  fever,  had 
he  given  her  the  slightest  encouragement ;  but  she 
might  as  well  have  hoped  to  find  a  heart  in  an  empty 
coat.  However,  a  thoroughly  good-nature  never  en- 
tirely loses  a  sort  of  gratitude  to  the  object  that  has 
called  forth  so  sweet  a  feeling  as  that  of  love,  even 
though  it  turn  out  unworthy,  or  the  affections  (as  in  our 
heroine's  case)  be  transferred  elsewhere ;  and  accord- 
ingly, in  sudden  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  with  a  face 
blushing  partly  from  shame,  and  partly  from  anger  at 
the  crowd,  forth  came  the  vision  of  pretty,  plump  little 
Miss  Widgeon  (Mrs.  BuiTowes  "  as  is  to  be"),  and  tap- 
ping Mr.  Blundell  on  the  shoulder,  and  begging  the 
"  other  gentlemen"  to  walk  in,  said,  in  a  voice  not  to 
be  resisted,  "  Hadn't  you  better  settle  this  matter  in- 
doors, Mr.  Blundell  1  I  dare  say  it  can  be  done  very 
easily." 

Blundell  has  gone  in,  dear  reader ;  the  other  gentle- 
men have  gone  in  ;  the  crowd  are  slowly  dislodging  ; 
Miss  Widgeon,  aided  partly  by  the  generosity  of  her 
nature,  partly  by  the  science  of  lodging-house  econo- 
my, and  partly  by  the  sense  and  manhood  of  Mr.  Wil- 
liam Burrowes,  then  present,  a  strapping  young  citizen 
from  Tower-hill,  takes  upon  herself  that  ascendency 
of  the  moment  over  Mr.  Blundell  due  to  a  superior 
nature,  and  settles  the  very  illegitimate  claims  of  the 
goods-and-chattel  bringers  to  the  satisfaction  of  all 
parties,  yea,  even  of  Mr.  Blundell  himself  The  balm 
of  the  immediate  relief  was  irresistible,  even  though 
he  saw  a  few  of  his  shillings  departing. 

What  he  felt  next  morning,  when  he  woke,  this  his- 


CAUFINGTON    BLUNDELL,    ESaUIRE.  55 

toiy  sayeth  not :  for  we  like  to  leave  off,  according  tu 
the  Italian  recommendation,  with  a  bocca  dulce,  a  sweet 
mouth ;  and  with  whose  mouth,  even  though  it  was  not 
always  grammatical,  can  the  imagination  be  left  in 
better  company  than  with  that  of  the  sweet-hearted 
and  generous  little  Polly  Widgeon  ? 


A  VISIT  TO  THE   ZOOLOGICAL  GARDENS.* 

The  collection  there  at  the  thne  of  the  visit. — A  tiger  broke  hose. — Mild 
anthropophagy  of  the  bear. —  The  elephant  the  Dr.  Johnson  of  animals. 
— Giraffes.  —  Monkeys.  —  Parrots.  —  Eagles.  —  Mysteries  of  animal 
thought. — Is  it  just  inhuman  beings  to  make  prisons  of  this  kind? 

We  went  to  the  Zoological  Gardens  the  other  day 
for  the  first  time,  to  see  our  old  friends  "  the  wild  beasts" 
(grim  intimates  of  boyhood),  and  enjoy  their  lift  in 
the  world  from  their  lodgings  in  Towers  and  Exeter 
Changes,  where  they  had  no  air,  and  where  an  ele- 
phant wore  boots,  because  the  rats  gnawed  his  feet ! 
The  first  thing  that  struck  us,  next  to  the  beauty  of  the 
Gardens,  and  the  pleasant  thought  that  such  flowery 
places  were  now  prepared  for  creatures  whom  we 
lately  thrust  into  mere  dens  and  dust-holes,  was  the 
quantity  of  life  and  energy  they  displayed.  What  mo- 
tion ! — what  strength  ! — what  elegance  !  What  prodi- 
gious chattering,  and  brilliant  colors  in  the  macaws  and 
paroquets  !  What  fresh,  clean,  and  youthful  salience  in 
the  lynx  !  What  a  variety  of  dogs,  all  honest  fellows, 
apparently  of  the  true  do^  kind ;  and  how  bounding, 
how  intelligent,  how  fit  to  guard  our  doors  and  our 
children,  and  scamper  all  over  the  country !  And  then 
the  Persian  greyhound  ! — how  like  a  patrician  dog 
(better  even  than  Landseer's),  and  made  as  if  expressly 
to  wait  upon  a  Persian  prince ;  its  graceful  slender- 

*  In  the  year  1835. 


A    VISIT    TO   »HE    ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  57 

ness,  darkness,  and  long  silken  ears,  matching  his  gen- 
tlemanly figure,  and  well-dressed  beard  ! 

We  have  life  enough,  daily,  round  about  us — amazing, 
if  we  did  but  think  of  it ;  but  our  indifference  is  a  part 
of  our  health.  The  blood  spins  in  us  too  quickly  to 
let  us  think  too  much.  This  sudden  exhibition  of  life, 
in  shapes  to  which  we  are  unaccustomed,  reminds  us 
of  the  wonderful  and  ever-renewing  vitality  of  all 
things.  Those  animals  look  as  fresh,  and  strong,  and 
beautiful,  as  if  they  were  born  in  a  new  beginning  of 
the  world.  Men  in  cities  hardly  look  as  much  ! — and 
horses  dragging  hackney-coaches  are  not  happy  speci- 
mens. But  the  horse  in  the  new  carriage  is  one,  if  we 
considered  it.  The  leaves  and  flowers  in  the  nursery 
gardens  exhibit  the  same  untiring  renewal  of  life.  The 
sunbeam,  in  the  thick  of  St.  Giles's,  comes  as  straight 
and  young  as  ever  from  the  godlike  orb  that  looks  at 
us  from  a  distance  of  millions  of  miles,  out  of  the  depths 
of  millions  of  ages.  But  the  sun  is  a  visitor  as  good- 
natured  as  it  is  great,  and  therefore  we  do  not  think  too 
much  even  of  the  sunbeam.  This  bounding  creature 
in  its  cage  is  not  a  common  sight ;  so  it  comes  freshly 
and  wonderfully  upon  us.  What  brilliancy  in  its 
eyes  !  What  impetuous  vigor  in  its  leap  !  What  fear- 
lessness of  knocks  and  blows  !  And  how  pleasant  to 
think  it  is  on  the  other  side  of  its  bars !  What  a  sen- 
sation would  ensue,  if  that  pretty-coated  creature, 
which  eats  a  cake  so  good-naturedly,  were  suddenly 
out  of  its  cage,  and  the  cry  were  heard — "A  tiger 
loose  !"— "  A  "panther  !"— "  A  lion  !"  What  a  rush  and 
screaming  of  all  the  ladies  to  the  gates  ! — and  of  gen- 
tlemen too!  How  the  human  voices,  and  those  of  the 
paroquets  would  go  shrieking  to  heaven  together! 
Fancy  the  bear  suddenly  jumping  off  his  pole  upon  the 


58  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

cake-shop !  A  tiger  let  loose  at  day-time  would  not 
be  so  bad  as  at  night.  Perhaps  he  would  be  most 
frightened  himself.  There  was  an  account  of  one  that 
got  loose  in  Piccadilly,  and  slunk  down  into  a  cellar, 
where  he  was  quietly  taken ;  but  at  night,  just  before 
feeding,  it  might  not  be  so  pleasant.  Newspapers  tell 
us  of  a  lion  which  got  out  of  one  of  the  travelling  car- 
avans in  the  country,  and,  after  lurking  about  the 
hedges,  tore  a  laborer  that  he  met,  in  full  daylight. 
Nervous  people  in  imaginative  states  of  the  biliary 
vessels — timid  gentlemen  taking  easy  rides — old  ladies 
too  comfortable  in  their  homes  and  arm-chairs — must 
sometimes  feel  misgivings  while  making  their  circuit 
of  the  Regent's  Park,  after  reading  news  of  this  de 
scription.  Fancy  yourself  coming  home  from  the  play 
or  opera,  humming  "  Deh  vieni,  non  tardar,"  or  "Meet 
me  by  moonlight  alone ;"  and,  as  you  are  turning  a 
corner  in  Wimpole-street,  meeting a  tiger ! 

What  should  you  say  ?  You  would  find  yourself 
pouring  forth  a  pretty  set  of  Rabelaesque  exclamations : 

"  Eh— Oh-^Oh  Lord  !— Hollo  !— Help  !— Help  !— 
Murder  ! — Tigers  ! — U-u-u-u-u-u  ! — My  God  ! — Po- 
liceman /" 

Enter  Policeman. 

Policeman. — "  Good  God  ! — A  gentleman  with  a 
tiger  !"  \_Exit  Policeman. 

In  one  of  Moliere's  exquisite  extravaganzas  between 
his  acts,  is  a  scene  betwixt  a  man  and  a  bear,  who  has 
caught  him  in  its  arms.  The  man  tries  every  expe- 
dient he  can  think  of  to  make  the  bear  considerate ; 
and,  among  others,  flatters  him  in  the  most  excessive 
manner,  calling  him,  at  last,  his  Royal  Highness.  The 
bear,  however,  whom  we  are  to  fancy  all  this  while 
on  its  hind  legs,  looking  the  man  with  hoi-rible  indifter- 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  59 

ence  in  the  face,  and  dancing  him  from  side  to  side 
in  its  heavy  shuffle,  is  not  at  all  to  be  diverted  from  his 
dining  purposes  ;  and  he  is  about  to  act  accordingly, 
when  hunters  come  up  and  take  off  his  attention.  Up 
springs  the  man  into  a  tree  ;  and  with  the  cruelty  of 
mortified  vanity  (to  think  of  all  the  base  adulation  he 
has  been  pouring  forth)  the  first  words  he  utters  re- 
specting his  Royal  Highness  are  "  Shoot  him." 

Not  without  its  drollery,  though  real,  is  a  story  of  a 
bear  in  one  of  the  northern  expeditions.  Two  men,  a 
mate  and  a  carpenter,  had  landed  somewhere  to  cut 
wood,  or  look  for  provisions  ;  and  one  of  them  was 
stooping  down,  when  he  thought  some  shipmate  had 
followed  him,  who  was  getting,  boy-like,  on  his  shoul- 
ders. "  Be  quiet,"  said  he  ;  "  get  down."  The  un- 
known did  not  get  down  ;  and  the  man,  looking  up  as 
he  stooped,  saw  the  carpenter  staring  at  him  in  horror. 

"  Oh,  mate  !"  exclaimed  the  carpenter,  "  it's  a  bear  /" 
Think  what  the  man  must  have  felt,  when  he  heard 
this  explanation  of  the  weight  on  his  shoulders.  No 
tragedy,  however,  ensued. 

Pleasant  enough  are  such  stories,  so  ending.  But 
of  all  deaths,  that  by  a  wild  beast  must  be  one  of  the 
most  horrible.  There  is  action,  indeed,  to  diminish  the 
horror  ;  but  frightful  must  be  the  unexpectedness — the 
unnaturalness — the  clawing  and  growling — the  hideous 
and  impracticable  fellow-creature,  looking  one  in  the 
face,  struggling  wiih  us,  mingling  his  breath  with  ours 
— tearing  away  scalp  or  shoulder-blade. 

To  return,  however,  to  our  Gardens.  The  next 
thing  that  struck  us  was  the  quiet;  and  in  connection 
with  this,  the  creatures'  accommodation  of  themselves  to 
circumstances,  and  the  human-like  sort  of  intercourse 
into  ichich  they  get  with  their  visitors.     With  wild 


60  ,  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

beasts  we  associate  the  ideas  of  constant  rage  and  as- 
sault. On  reflection,  we  recollect  that  this  is  not  bound 
to  be  the  case  ;  that  travellers  pass  deserts  in  day-time, 
and  neither  hear  nor  see  them  ;  and  that  it  is  at  night 
they  are  to  be  looked  for  in  true  wild-beast  condition, 
and  then  only  if  wild  with  hunger.  It  is  no  very  ex- 
traordinary matter,  therefore,  to  find  them  quiet  by 
day,  especially  when  we  consider  how  their  wants  are 
attended  to  :  and  yet  we  cannot  but  think  it  strange 
that  they  should  be  so  put,  as  they  are,  into  an  unnat- 
ural condition,  under  bars  and  bolts.  More  of  this, 
however,  presently.  Let  us  look  at  them  as  making 
friends  with  us,  receiving  our  buns  and  biscuits,  and 
being  as  close  to  us  (by  permission  of  those  same  bars) 
as  dogs  and  cats.  This  is  a  very  different  position  of 
things  from  the  respectful  distance  kept  in  the  African 
sands  or  in  the  jungle  !  We  are  afraid  it  breeds  con- 
tempt in  some  of  the  spectators,  or  at  least  indifference  ; 
and  that  people  do  not  ahvays  find  the  pleasure  they 
expected.  We  could  not  help  admiring  one  visitor 
the  other  day,  who  hastened  from  den  to  den,  and  from 
beast  to  bird,  twirling  an  umbrella,  and  giving  little 
self-complacent  stops  at  each,  no  longer  than  if  he 
were  turning  over  some  commonplace  book  of  prints. 
"  Hah  !"  he  seemed  to  be  saying  lo  himself,  "  this  is  the 
panther,  is  it  1  Hm — Panther.  What  says  the  label 
here  ?  '  Hygena  Capensis.'  Hm — Hyaena — ah  !  a 
thing  untamable.  '  Grisly  Bear.'  Hah  ! — grisly — 
lun.  Very  like.  Boa — '  Tiger  Boa' — ah  ! — Boa  in  a 
box — Hm — Sleeping,  I  suppose.  Very  different  from 
seeing  him  squeeze  somebody.  Hm.  Well  1  I  think 
it  will  rain.  Terrible  thing  that — spoil  my  hat."  Per- 
haps, however,  we  are  doing  the  gentleman  injustice, 
and  he  was  only  giving  a  glance,  preparatory  to   a 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  61 

longer  inspection.  When  a  pleasure  is  great  and  mul- 
titudinous, one  is  apt  to  run  it  ail  over  hastily  in  the 
first  instance  ;  as  in  an  exhibition  of  paintings,  or  with 
a  parcel  of  books. 

It  is  curious  to  find  one's  self  (literally)  hand  and 
glove  with  a  bear  ;  giving  him  buns,  and  watching  his 
face,  like  a  school-boy's,  to  see  how  he  likes  them.  A 
reflection  rises — "  If  it  were  not  for  those  bars,  perhaps 
he  would  be  eating  we."  Yet  how  mild  they  and  his 
food  render  him.  We  scrutinize  his  countenance  and 
manners  al  leisure,  and  are  amused  with  his  apparently 
indolent  yet  active  lumpishness,  his  heavy  kind  of  in- 
telligence (which  will  do  nothing  more  than  is  neces- 
sary), his  almost  hand-like  use  of  his  long,  awkward- 
looking  toes,  and  the  fur  which  he  wears  clumsilv 
about  him,  like  a  watchman's  great-coat.  The  darker 
bears  look,  somehow,  the  more  natural  :  at  least  to 
those  whose  imaginatio(|s  have  not  grown  up  amidst 
polar  narratives.  The  white  bear  in  these  Gardens 
has  a  horrible  mixed  look  of  innocence  and  cruelty. 
A  Roman  tyrant  kept  a  bear  as  one  of  his  executioners, 
and  called  it  "  Innocence."  We  could  imagine  it  to 
have  had  just  such  a  face.  From  that  smooth,  unim- 
pressible  aspect  there  is  no  appeal,  lie  has  no  ill-will 
to  you  ;  only  he  is  fond  of  your  flesh,  and  would  eat 
you  up  as  meekly  as  you  would  sup  milk  or  swallow 
a  custard.  Imagine  his  arms  around  you,  and  your 
fate  depending  upon  what  you  could  say  to  him,  like 
the  man  in  Moliere.  '  You  feel  that  you  might  as  well 
talk  to  a  devouring  statue,  or  to  the  sign  of  the  Bear 
in  Piccadilly,  or  to  a  guillotine,  or  to  the  cloak  of  Nes- 
sus,  or  to  your  own  great-coat  (to  ask  it  to  be  not  so 
heavy),  or  to  the  smooth-faced  wife  of  an  ogre,  hungry 


G2  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

and  deaf,  and  one  that  did  not  understand  your  lan- 
guage. 

Another  curious  sensation  arises  from  being  so  tran- 
quil yourself,  and  slow  in  your  movements,  w^hile  you 
are  close  to  creatures  so  full  of  emotion  and  action. 
And  you  knov^r  not  whether  to  be  more  pleased  or  dis- 
appointed at  seeing  some  of  them  look  so  harmless, 
and  others  so  small.  On  calling  your  recollections 
together,  you  may  know,  as  matters  of  fact,  that  lynxes 
and  wolves  are  no  bigger  ;  but  you  have  willingly 
made  them  otherwise,  as  they  appear  to  you  in  the 
books  of  your  childhood  ;  and  it  seems  an  anti-climax 
to  find  a  wolf  no  bigger  than  a  dog,  and  a  lynx  than  a 
large  cat.  The  lynx  in  these  Gardens  is  a  beautiful, 
bounding  creature.  You  know  him  at  once  by  his 
ears,  if  not  by  his  eyes  ;  yet  he  does  not  strike  you  like 
the  lynx  you  have  read  of.  You  ai-e  obliged  to  ani- 
mate your  respect  for  him,  b}^ considering  him  under 
the  title  of  "  cat-o'-mountain  :" 

"  The  owl  is  abroad,  the  bat  and  the  toad, 
And  so  is  the  cat-o'-mountain." 

Alas  !  poor  cat-o'-mountain  is  not  abroad  here,  in  the 
proper  sense  ;  he  is  "  abroad  and  at  home,"  and  yet 
neither.  You  see  him  by  daylight,  without  the  proper 
fire  in  his  eyes.  You  do  not  meet  him  in  a  mountain 
pass,  but  in  a  poor  closet  in  Mary-le-bone  ;  where  he 
jumps  about  like  a  common  cat,  begging  for  something 
to  eat.  Let  him  look  as  he  may,  he  does  not  look  so 
well  as  in  a  book.  ' 

We  saw  no  lion.  Whether  there  is  any  or  not,  at 
present,  we  cannot  say.  I  believe  there  is.  But 
friends  get  talking,  and  one  of  them  moves  away,  and 
carries  off  the  rest ;  and  so  things  are  passed  by.  We 
did  not  even  see  the  rhinoceros  ;  or  the  beaver,  which 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  63 

would  not  come  out  (if  there)  ;  or  the  seal  (which  we 
particularly  wished  to  see,  having  a  respect  for  seals 
and  their  aflections : — there  is  one  species  in  particu- 
lar, remarkable  for  the  mobility  of  its  expression, 
which  we  should  like  to  get  acquainted  with  ;  but  this 
is  not  the  one  in  the  Garden  catalogue).  The  lioness 
was  asfeep,  as  all  well-behaved  wild  beasts  ought  to 
be  at  that  hour ;  and  another,  or  a  tigress  (we  forget 
which),  pained  the  beholder  by  walking  incessantly  to 
and  fro,  uttering  little  moans.  She  seemed  incapable 
of  the  philosophy  of  her  fellow-captives.  The  dogs 
are  an  interesting  sight,  particularly  the  Persian  grey- 
hounds already  mentioned,  and  the  St.  Bernard  dogs, 
famous  for  their  utility  and  courage.  But  it  was  a 
melancholv  thing  to  see  one  of  these  friends  of  the 
traveller  barking  and  bounding  incessantly  for  pieces 
of  biscuit,  and  jerked  back  by  the  chain  round  his 
neck.  It  seemed  an  ill  return  for  the  Alpine  services 
of  his  family. 

The  boa  in  his  box  was  asleep.  He  is  handsomely 
spotted :  but  the  box  formed  a  sorry  contrast  in  the 
imagination  with  his  native  woods.  He  seemed  to  be 
in  terrible  want  of  "air  and  exercise."  Is  not  the  box 
unconscionably  small  and  confined  ?  Could  not  a 
snake-safe  be  contrived,  of  good  handsome  dimensions? 
There  is  no  reason  why  a  serpent  should  not  be  made 
as  comfortable  as  possible,  even  though  he  would  make 
no  more  bones  of  us  that  we  do  of  an  oyster. 

The  squirrels  are  better  oflT,  and  are  great  favorites', 
being  natural  crackers  of  nuts  ;  but  could  no  trees  be 
contrived  for  them  to  climb,  and  gras^for  their  feet? 
It  is  unpleasant  to  see  them  so  much  on  the  ground. 

The  elephant  would  seem  to  be  more  comfortably 
situated  than  most.     He  has  water  to  bathe  in,  mud  to 


64 


A    VISIT    TO    THE 


stick  in,  and  an  area  many  times  bigger  than  himself 
for  his  circuit.     Very  interesting  is  it  to  see  him  throw 
bits  of  mud  over  himself,  and  to  see,  and  hear  him, 
suck  the  water  up  in  his  trunk  and  then  discharge  it 
into  his  great  red  throat ;  in  which  he  also  receives, 
with  sage  amenity,  the  biscuits  of  the  ladies.     Cer- 
tainly, the  more  one  considers  an  elephant,  the  more 
he  makes  good  his  claim  to  be  considered  the  Doctor 
Johnson  of  the  brute   creation.     He  is  huge,  potent, 
sapient,  susceptible  of  tender  impressions ;  is  a  good 
fellow ;  likes  as  much  water  as  the  otiier  did  tea ;  gets 
on  at  a  great  uncouth  rate  when  he  walks  ;  and  though 
perhaps  less  irritable  and  melancholy,  can  take  a  witty 
revenge  ;  as  witness  the  famous  story  of  the  tailor  that 
pricked  him,  and  whom  he  drenched  with  ditch  water. 
If  he  were  suddenly  gifted  with  speech,  and  we  asked 
him  whether  he  liked  his  imprisonment,  the  first  words 
he  would  utter  would  unquestionably  be — "  Why,  no, 
sir."     Nor  is  it  to  be  doubted,  when  going  to  dinner, 
that  he  would  echo  the  bland  sentiment  of  our  illus- 
trious countryman  on  a  like  occasion,  "  Sir,  I  like  to 
dine."     If  asked  his  opinion  of  his  keeper,  he  would 
say,  "  Why,  sir,  Hipkins  is,  upon  the  whole,  '  a  good 
fellow,' — like  myself,  sir,  {smiling), — but  not  quite  so 
considerate;  he   knows  I  love 'him,  and  presumes  a 
little  too  much  upon  my  forbearance.     He  teazes  me 
for  the  amusement  of  the  bystanders.     Sir,  Hipkins 
takes  the   display  of  allowance  for  the  merit  of  as- 
cendency." 

This  is  what  the  elephant  manifestly  thought  on  the 
present  occasiin ;  for  the  keeper  set  a  little  dog  at 
him,  less  to  the  amusement  of  the  bystanders  than  he 
fancied  ;  and  the  noble  beast,  after  butting  the  cur  out 
of  the  way,  and  taking  care  to  spare  him  as  he  ad- 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  (55 

\  unced  (tor  one  tread  of  his  foot  would  have  smashed 
the  little  pertinacious  wretch  as  flat  as  a  pancake), 
suddenly  made  a  stop  and,  in  rebuke  of  both  of  them, 
uttered  a  high  indignant  scteam,  much  resembling  a 
score  of  cracked  trumpets. 

Enter  the  three  lady-like  and  most  curious  giraffes, 
probably  called  forth  by  the  noise  ;  which  they  took, 
however,  with  great  calmness.  On  inspection,  their 
faces  express  insipidity  and  indifference  more  than 
anything  else — at  least  the  one  that  we  looked  at  did  ; 
but  they  are  interesting  from  their  novelty,  and  from 
a  singular  look  of  cleanliness,  delicacy,  and  refinement, 
mixed  with  a  certain  gaucherie,  arising  from  their 
long,  poking  necks,  and  the  disparity  of  length  between 
their  fore  and  hind  legs.  They  look  like  young  ladies 
of  animals,  naturally  not  ungraceful,  but  with  bad 
habits.  Their  necks  are  not  on  a  Jine  with  their  fore 
legs,  perpendicular  and  held  up  ;  nor  yet  arched  like 
horses'  necks  ;  but  make  a  feeble-looking,  obtuse  angle, 
completely  answering  to  the  word  "  poking."  The 
legs  come  up  so  close  to  the  necks,  that  in  front  they 
appear  to  have  no  bodies  ;  the  back  slopes  like  a  hill, 
producing  the  singular  disparity  between  the  legs  ;  and 
the  whole  animal,  being  slender,  light-colored,  and 
very  gentle,  gives  you  an  idea  of  delicacy  amounting 
to  the  fragile.  The  legs  look  as  if  a  stick  would  break 
them  in  two,  like  glass.  Add  to  this,  a  slow  and  un- 
couth lifting  of  the  legs,  as  they  walk,  as  if  stepping 
over  gutters;  and  the  effect  is  just  such  as  has  been 
described, — the  strangest  mixture  in  the  world  of 
elegance  and  uncouthness.  The  peo|)le  in  charge  of 
them  seemed  to  be  constantly  currycombing  them 
after  a  gentle  fashion,  for  extreme  cleanliness  is  neces- 
sary to  their  health ;  and  the  novelty  of  the  spectacle 


66  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

is  completed  by  the  appearance  of  M.  Thibaut  in  his 
Arab  dress  and  beard, — the  Frenchman  who  brought 
them  over.  The  one  we  spoke  of,  moving  its  Hps,  but 
not  the  expression  of  its  countenance,  helped  itself  to 
a  mouthful  of  feathers  out  of  a  lady's  bonnet,  as  it 
stooped  over  the  rails. 

The  sight  of  new  creatures  like  these  throws  one 
upon  conjectures  as  to  the  reasons  why  nature  calls 
them  into  existence.  The  conjectures  are  not  very 
likely  to  discover  anything ;  but  nature  allows  their 
indulgence.  All  one  can  suppose  is,  that,  besides  help- 
ing to  keep  down  the  mutual  superfluity  of  animal  or 
vegetable  life,  and  enabling  the  great  conditions  of 
death  and  reproduction  to  be  fulfilled,  their  own  por- 
tion of  life  is  a  variety  of  the  pleasurable,  which 
could  exist  only  under  that  particular  form.  We  are 
to  conclude,  that  if  the  giraffe,  the  elephant,  the  lion, 
&c.  &c.,  were  not  formed  in  that  especial  manner, 
they  could  neither  perform  the  purposes  required  of 
them  in  the  general  scheme  of  creation,  nor  realize 
certain  amounts  of  pleasurable  sensation  peculiar  to 
each  species.  Happiness  can  only  be  added,  or  at 
least  is  only  added,  to  the  general  stock,  under  that 
shape.  And  thus  we  can  very  well  imagine  new 
shapes  of  happiness  called  into  being ;  just  as  others 
appear  to  have  been  worn  out,  or  done  with,  as  in  the 
mammoth  and  other  antediluvian  creatures.  If  we  can 
conceive  no  end  of  space,  why  should  we  conceive  an 
end  of  new  creations,  whatever  our  poor  little  bounds 
of  historical  time  might  appear  to  argue  to  the  con- 
trary ?  What  are  a  few  thousands  of  years  1  What 
would  be  millions?  Not  a  twinkle  in  the  eye  of  eter- 
nity. To  return,  however,  to  our  first  proposition, — 
human  beings,  brutes,  fish,  insects,  serpents,  vegetables, 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  67 

appear  to  be  all  varieties  of  pleasurable  or  pleasure- 
giving  vitality,  necessary  to  the  harmony  and  com- 
pleteness of  the  music  of  this  state  of  being  ;  the  vvrorst 
discords  of  which  (by  our  impulses  to  that  end)  seem 
destined  to  be  done  away,  leaving  only  so  much  con- 
trast as  shall  add  another  heavenly  orb  to  the  spheres. 
(Permit  at  least  this  dream  by  the  roadside  of  creation. 
Who  can  contemplate  its  marvellousness  and  beauty, 
and  not  think  his  best  thoughts  on  the  subject) '( 

We  forgot  to  mention  the  porcupine.  It  is  very 
curious,  and  realizes  a  dream,  yet  not  the  most  ro- 
mantic part  of  it.  The  real  porcupine  is  not  so  good 
a  thing  as  it  is  in  an  old  book  ;  for  it  doesti't  shoot. 
Oh,  books  !  you  are  truly  a  world  by  yourselves,  and 
a  "  real  world"  too,  as  the  poet  has  called  you,  for  you 
make  us  feel ;  and  what  can  any  reality  do  more  1* 
Heaven  made  you,  as  it  did  the  other  world.  Books 
were  contemplated  by  Providence,  as  well  as  other 
matters  of  fact.  In  the  time  of  Claudian,  the  mere 
sight  of  this  animal  seems  to  have  been  enough  to 
convince  people  of  its  powers  of  warfare.  At  least  it 
convinced  the  poet.  The  darts  were  before  his  eyes ; 
and  he  took  the  showman's  word  for  the  use  which 
could  be  made  of  them ;  only,  it  seems,  the  cunning 
porcupine  was  not  "  lavish  of  his  weapons,"  nor  chose 
to  part  with  them,  unless  his  life  was  in  danger.  He 
was  very  cautious,  says  the  poet,  how  he  got  in  a  pas- 
sion.    He  contented  himself  with  threats. 

"  Additur  armis 
Galliditas,  parcusque  sui  tinior,  iraque  nunquam 


*  Books  are  a  real  world, 
Round  which,  with  tendrils  strong  as  flesh  and  blood, 

Our  pastime  and  our  happiness  may  grow. 

Wordsworth. 
A  passage  often  quoted — it  cannot  be  too  often. 


68  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

Prodiga  telorum,  caute  contenta  minari, 
Nee  nisi  servandae  jactus  impendere  vitse." 

De  Hystrice. 

The  rattling  of  the  prickles  described  by  Claudian 
is  still  to  be  heard,  .when  the  creature  is  angry ;  at 
least  so  the  naturalists  tell  us  ;  and  it  is  added,  that 
they  "  occasionally  fall  off,  particularly  in  autumn  ;" 
but  it  has  no  power  of  "  shooting  them  at  its  pur- 
suers."* 

The  dromedary  looked  very  uncomfortable.  His 
coat  was  half  gone,  as  if  from  disease  :  and  he  ap- 
peared to  sit  down  on  the  earth  for  the  purpose  of 
screening  as  much  of  his  barenness  as  he  could,  and 
of  getting  warmth.  But  there  was  that  invincible 
look  of  patience  in  the  face,  which  is  so  affecting,  and 
which  creates  so  much  respect  in  whatever  face  it  be 
found.  Animals  luckily  have  no  affectation.  What 
you  see  in  their  faces  is  genuine ;  though  you  may 
overrate  it,  or  do  the  reverse.  When  the  lion  looks 
angry,  nobody  believes  he  is  feigning.  When  the  dog 
looks  affectionate,  who  doubts  him  ? 

But  the  monkeys — What  a  curious  interest  they 
create, — half-amusing,  half-painful !  The  reflection 
forced  upon  one's  vanity  is  inevitable — "  They  are 
very  like  men."  Oh,  quam  simillima  turpissima  hestia 
nobis! 

Oh,  how  like  us  is  that  most  vile  of  brutes ! 

The  way  in  which  they  receive  a  nut  in  their  hands, 
compose  themselves  with  a  sort  of  bustling  noncha- 
lance to  crack  it,  and  then  look  about  for  more  with 
that  little,  withered,  winking,  half-human  face,  is  start- 
ling. The  hand  in  particular  mortifies  one,  it  looks 
so  very  unbrute-like,  and  yet  at  the  same  time  is  so 

*  Gore's  Translation  of  Blumenbach,  p.  49. 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  69 

small,  so  skinny,  so  like  something  elvish  and  unnat 
ural.  No  wonder  it  has  been  thought  in  some  coun 
tries  that  monkeys  could  speak,  but  avoided  it  for  fear 
of  being  set  to  vi^ork.  In  their  roomy  cages  here  they 
look  like  a  set  of  half-human  pigmy  school-boys  with- 
ered into  caricatures  of  a  certain  class  of  laborers,  but 
having  neither  work  nor  want, — nothing  to  do  but  to 
leap  out,  or  sit  still,  or  play  with,  or  plague  one  an- 
other. Classes  of  two  very  gallant  nations  have  been 
thought  like  monkeys ;  and  it  ought  not  to  mortify 
them,  any  more  than  the  general  resemblance  to  man 
should  mortify  the  human  species.  The  mortification 
in  the  latter  instance  is  undoubtedly  felt,  but  it  tells 
more  against  the  man  than  the  monkey.  To  the 
monkey  it  is,  in  fact,  "  a  lift ;"  and  that  is  the  reason 
why  the  man  roeents  it.  We  wish  to  stand  alone  in 
the  creation,  and  not  to  be  approached  by  any  other 
animal,  especially  by  one  so  insignificant, — so  little 
"respectable"  on  the  score  of  size  and  power.  We 
would  rather  be  resembled  by  lions  and  tigers.  It  is 
curious  to  observe,  that  in  British  heraldry  there  are 
but  three  coats  of  arms  which  have  monkeys  for  sup- 
porters. One  is  the  Duke  of  Leinster's  (owing,  it  is 
said,  to  a  monkey  having  carried  off  a  Fitzgerald  in 
a  time  of  danger  to  the  house-top,  and  safely  brought 
him  back).  The  others  belong  to  the  houses  of  Digby 
and  St.  John.  Lions,  tigers,  eagles,  all  sorts  of  fero- 
cious animals,  are  in  abundance.  This  is  natural 
enough,  considering  that  this  kind  of  honor  originated 
in  feudal  times  ;  but  the  mind  (without  losing  its  just 
consideration  for  circumstances  past  or  present,  and 
all  the  strength,  as  well  as  weakness,  which  they  in- 
clude) has  yet  to  learn  the  proper  respect  for  qualities 
unconnected  with  brute  force  anrl  power  ;  and  it  will 


70  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

do  SO  in  good  time  :  it  is  doing  so  now,  and  therefore 
one  may  remark,  without  too  much  chance  of  rebuke, 
that  as  all  nations,  indeed  all  individuals,  according  to 
some,  have  been  said  to  be  like  different  classes  of 
the  lower  creation  (Englishmen  like  mastiffs  or  bull- 
dogs, Italians  like  antelopes,  &c.),  so  it  ought  not  to  be 
counted  the  most  humiliating  of  such  similitudes,  when 
certain  nations,  or  particular  portions  of  a  nation, 
especially  of  those  that  for  wit  and  courage  rank 
among  the  foremost,  are  called  to  mind  by  expressions 
in  the  faces  of  a  tribe  of  animals,  remarkable  not  only 
for  that  circumstance,  but  for  their  superiority  to 
others  in  shrewdness,  in  vivacity,  in  mode  of  life,  nay, 
in  the  affections  ;  for  most  touching  stories  have  been 
told  of  the  attachments  of  monkeys  to  one  another,  and 
to  the  human  race  too,  and  particularly  of  their  be- 
havior when  their  companions  or  young  ones  have 
been  killed.  What  ought  to  mortify  us  in  the  likeness 
of  brutes  to  men  is  the  anger  to  which  we  see  them 
subject, — the  revenge,  the  greediness,  and  other  low 
passions.  But  these  they  have  in  common  with  most 
animals.  Their  shrewdness  and  their  sympathies  they 
share  with  few.  And  there  is  a  residuum  of  mystery 
in  them,  as  in  all  things,  which  should  lead  us  to  culti- 
vate as  much  regard  for  them  as  we  can,  thus  turning 
what  is  unknown  to  us  to  good  instead  of  evil.  It  is 
impossible  to  look  with  much  reflection  at  any  animal, 
especially  one  of  this  apparently  half-thinking  class, 
and  not  consider  that  he  probably  partakes  far  more 
of  our  own  thoughts  and  feelings  than  we  are  aware 
of,  just  as  he  manifestly  partakes  of  our  senses  ;  nay, 
that  he  may  add  to  this  community  of  being,  faculties 
or  perceptions,  which  we  are  unable  to  conceive.  We 
may  construe  what  we  see  of  the  manifestation  «.f  \v^ 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  71 

animal's  feelings  into  something  good  or  otherwise,  as 
it  happens;  perhaps  our  conjectures  may  be  altogether 
wrong,  but  we  cannot  be  wrong  in  making  the  best 
of  them, — in  getting  as  much  pleasure  from  them  as 
possible,  and  giving  as  much  advantage  to  our  fellow- 
creatures.  On  the  present  occasion,  as  we  stood 
watching  these  strange  beings,  marvelling  at  their  eat- 
ings, their  faces,  and  at  the  prodigious  jumps  they  took 
from  pillar  to  post,  careless  of  thumps  that  seemed  as 
if  they  would  have  dislocated  their  limbs,  we  observed 
one  of  them  sitting  by  another  with  his  arm  around 
his  neck,  precisely  as  a  school-boy  will  sit  with  his 
friend  ;  and  rapidly  grinning  at  a  third,  as  if  to  keep 
him  off.  The  grin  consisted  of  that  incessant  and  ap- 
parently malignant  retraction  of  the  lips  over  the  teeth 
which  look  as  if  it  were  every  instant  Eroincr  to  sav 
something,  and  break  forth  into  threat  and  abuse.  The 
monkey  that  was  thus  kept  on,  leaped  up  every  now 
and  then  towards  the  parties  (who  were  sitting  on  a 
shelf),  and  gave  a  smart  slap  of  the  hand  to  the  pro- 
tecting individual,  or  received  one  instead.  We  did 
not  know  enough  of  their  habits  to  judge  whether  it 
was  play  or  warfare;  whether  the  assailant  wished  to 
injure  the^ne  that  seemed  protected,  or  whether  the 
protector  wrongly  or  rightly  kept  him  away,  from 
jealousy  or  from  sport.  At  length  the  prohibited  in- 
dividual was  allowed  quietly  to  make  one  of  the  trio  ; 
and  there  he  sat,  nestling  himself  against  ihe  protege, 
and  so  remained  as  long  as  we  saw  them.  The  proba- 
bility therefore  was,  that  it  was  all  sport  and  good 
humor,  and  that  the  whole  trio  were  excellent  friends. 
Natiom  of  a  very  different  sort  from  Africans  have 
seen  such  a  likeness  between  men  and  monkeys,  that 
the  Hindoos  have  a  celebrated  monkey-general  (Han- 


72 


A.  VISIT    TO    THE 


uman),  who  cuts  a  figure  in  their  mythology  and  their 
plays,  and  was  a  friend  of  the  god  Rama.*  Young 
readers  (nor  old  ones,  who  have  wit  or  good  spirits 
enough  to  remain  young)  need  not  be  reminded  of  the 
monkey  in  "Philip  Quarll ;"  nor  of  him  that  became 
secretary  to  a  sultan  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights."  After 
all,  let  nobody  suppose  that  it  is  the  intention  of  these 
remarks  to  push  the  analogy  between  the  two  classes 
further  than  is  warrantable,  or  to  lessen  the  real 
amout  of  the  immeasurable  distance  between  them. 
But  anything  that  looks  like  humanity  on  the  part  of 
the  poor  little  creature  need  not  be  undervalued  for  all 
that,  or  merely  because  we  pay  it  the  involuntary  com- 
pliment of  a  mortified  jealousy.  And  as  to  its  face, 
there  is  unquestionably  a  look  of  reflection  in  it,  and 
of  care  too,  which  ought  not  to  be  disrespected.  Its 
worst  feature  is  the  inefficient  nose,  arguing,  it  would 
seem,  an  infirmity  of  purpose  to  any  strong  endeavor 
(if  such  arguments  are  derivable  from  such  things) ; 
and  yet,  as  if  to  show  her  love  of  comedy,  and  render 
the  class  a  riddle  for  alternate  seriousness  and  lau^h- 
ter,  Nature  has  produced*  a  species  of  ape,  ludicrous 
for  the  length  of  this  very  feature. f  Nature  has  made 
levity  as  well  as  gravity ;  and  really  seems  inclined, 
now  and  then,  to  play  a  bit  of  farce  in  her  own  person, 
as  the  gods  did  on  Mount  Olympus  with  Vulcan — 

"  When  unextinguished  laughter  shook  the  skies." 

Fit  neighbors  for  the  monkeys  are  the  paroquets — 

*  Wilson's  "  Select  Specimens  of  the  Theatre  of  the  Hindus."  For 
an  account  of  a  festival  in  honor  of  Rama,  in  which  his  monkey-friend 
is  conspicuous,  see  "  Bishop  Heber's  Journal,"  chap.  xiii.  ^ 

f  The  Simia  Rostrata — "  long-nosed  ape."  "  It  is  siviia,  but  not 
sivia,^'  says  Blumenbach,  "  being  remarkable  for  its  long  proboscis-like 
nose." 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  73 

themselves,  in  some  respects,  a  kind  of  monkey-bird — 
with  claws  which  they  use  like  hands,  a  faculty  of  im 
itation  in  voice,  and  something  in  the  voice  so  like 
speech  and  articulation  that  one  almost  fancies  the  gut- 
tural murmuring  about  to  break  out  into  words,  and 
say  something.  But  what  colors! — What  blazes  of 
red  and  gold,  of  green,  blue,  and  all  sorts  of  the  purest 
splendors  !  How  must  those  reds  and  blues  look,  when 
thronging  and  shining  amidst  the  amber  tops  of  their 
trees,  under  a  tropical  sun  !  And  for  whose  eyes  are 
those  colors  made  ?  Hardly  for  man's — for  man  does 
not  see  a  hundred-millionth  part  of  them,  nor  perhaps 
would  choose  to  live  in  a  condition  for  seeing  them,  at 
least  not  in  their  true  state  :  unless,  indeed,  he  should 
come  to  like  their  screaming  in  the  woods,  for  the  same 
reason  that  we  like  the  cawing  of  rooks.  Meantime 
they  would  appear  to  be  made  for  their  own.  "  Why 
not?"  asks  somebody.  True,  but  we  are  not  accus- 
tomed to  consider  them  in  that  light,  or  as  made  for 
any  other  purpose  than  for  some  distinction  or  attrac- 
tion of  sex.  In  nothing,  however,  does  Nature  seem 
to  take  more  delight  than  in  colors ;  and  perhaps  (to 
guess  reverently,  not  profanely)  these  gorgeous  hues 
are  intended  for  the  pleasure  of  some  unknown  class  of 
spiritual  eyes,  upon  which  no  kind  of  beauty  is  lost,  as 
it  is  too  often  upon  man's.  It  is  impossible  to  picture 
to  ones-self  the  countless  beauties  of  nature,  the  myr- 
iads of  paintings,  animal,  vegetable,  and  mineral,  with 
which  earth,  air,  and  seas  are  thronged,  and  fancy 
them  all  made  for  no  eyes  but  man's.  Neither  is  it 
easy  to  suppose  that  other  animals  have  eyes,  and  yet 
look  upon  these  riches  of  the  eyesight  with  no  feel- 
mg  of  admiration  analogous  to  our  own.  The  pea- 
cock's expansion  of  his  plumage,  and  the  apparent 
VOL.  I.  4 


74  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

pride  he  takes  in  it,  force  us  to  believe  othervv^ise  in  his 
particular  case  ;  and  yet,  with  our  tendency  to  put  the 
worst  or  least  handsome  construction  on  what  our  in- 
ferior fellow-creatures  do,  we  attribute  to  pride,  jeal- 
ousy, and  other  degrading  passions,  what  may  really 
be  attributable  to  something  better;  nor  may  it  be 
pride  in  the  peacock,  which  induces  him  to  display  his 
beauty,  but  some  handsomer  joy  in  the  beauty  itself. 
You  may  call  every  man  who  dresses  well  a  coxcomb 
— but  it  is  possible  he  is  not  so.  He  may  do  it  for  the 
same  reason  that  he  dresses  his  room  well  with  pic- 
tures, or  loves  to  see  his  wife  well-dressed.  He  may 
be  such  an  admirer  of  the  beautiful  in  all  thins^s.  that 
he  cannot  omit  a  sense  of  it  even  in  his  own  attire. 
Raphael  is  understood  to  have  been  an  elegant  dresser ; 
and  it  has  been  conjectured  from  a  sonnet  of  Shaks- 
peare's  (No.  146)  that  he  was  one.  Yet  who  could 
suppose  Shakspeare  a  coxcomb?  much  less  proud! 
He  had  too  much  to  be  proud  of  in  petty  eyes,  to  be 
so  in  his  own — standing,  as  he  did,  a  wise  and  kind 
atom,  but  still  an  atom,  in  the  midst  of  the  overwhelm- 
ing magnificence  of  nature  and  the  mysteries  of  worlds. 
The  same  attention  to  dress  is  recorded  of  the  grave 
philosopher,  Aristotle  ;  and  the  story  of  Plato's  carpet, 
and  of  the  "  greater  pride"  with  which  Diogenes  tram- 
pled upon  it,  is  well  known.  Now,  inasmuch  as  pride 
is  an  attribute  of  narrowness  of  spirit  and  want  of 
knowledge,  the  lower  animals  may  undoubtedly  be  sub- 
ject to  it, — though  still  to  be  proud  of  a  color,  and  of 
external  beauty,  would  imply  an  association  of  ideas 
more  subtle  than  we  are  accustomed  to  attribute  to 
them ;  and  proud  or  not,  there  appears  great  reason  to 
believe,  that  conscious  of  these  colors  and  beauties 
they  are.     If  so,  the  eyes  of  a  crowd  of  panjquets  and 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDEN'S.  75 

macaws,  assembled  in  the  place  before  us,  must  have 
a  constant  feast.  Does  their  talk  mean  to  say  anything 
of  this  ?  Is  it  divided  between  an  admiration  of  one 
another,  and  their  dinner  ?  For,  assuredly,  they  do 
talk  of  something  or  other,  from  morning  till  night,  like 
a  roomful  of  French  milliners ;  and  apparently,  they 
ought  to  be  as  fond  of  colors,  and  of  their  own  appear- 
ance. These  lively  and  brilliant  creatures  seem  the 
happiest  in  the  Gardens,  next  to  the  ducks  and  spar- 
rows ;  the  latter  of  whom,  by  the  way,  are  in  exquisite 
luck  here,  having  a  rich  set  of  neighbors  brought  them, 
without  partaking  of  their  imprisonment.  It  would  be 
delightful  to  see  them  committing  their  thefts  upon 
cage  and  pan,  if  it  were  not  for  the  creatures  caged. 

And  the  poor  eagles  and  vultures  !  The  very  instinct 
of  this  epithet  shows  what  an  unnatural  state  they  must 
have  been  brought  to.  Think  of  eagles  being  com- 
miserated, and  called  "  poor  1"  It  is  monstrous  to  see 
any  creature  in  a  cage,  far  more  any  winged  creature, 
and,  most  of  all,  such  as  are  accustomed  to  soar  through 
the  vault  of  heaven,  and  have  the  world  under  their 
eye.  Look  at  the  eyes  of  these  birds  here,  these  eagles 
and  vultures  !  How  strangely  clouded  now  seems  that 
grand  and  stormy  depression  of  the  eyelid,  drawn  with 
that  sidelong  air  of  tightness,  fierceness,  and  threat,  as 
if  by  the  brush  of  some  mighty  painter.  That  is  an  eye 
for  the  clouds  and  the  subject-earth,  not  for  a  misera- 
ble hen-coop.  And  see,  poor  flagging  wretches  !  how 
they  stand  on  their  perches,  each  at  a  little  distance 
from  one  another,  in  poor  stationary  exhibition,  eagles 
all  of  a  row! — quiet,  "impaired,  6T?-?//;/«/ ;  almost  mo- 
tionless !  Are  these  the  sovereiijn  creatures  described 
by  the  Bufibns  and  Mudies,  by  the  Wilsons  of  orni- 
thology and  poetry,  by  Spenser,  by  Homer  ?    Is  this 


76  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

the  eagle  of  Pindar,  heaving  his  moist  back  in  sleep 
upon  the  sceptre  of  Jove,  under  the  influence  of  the 
music  of  the  eods?*  Is  this  the  bird  of  the  Ensrlish 
poet, 

"  Soaring  through  his  wide  empire  of  the  air, 
To  weatlierhis  broad  vans?" 

Wonderful  and  admirable  is  the  quietness,  the  phi- 
losophy, or  whatever  you  choose  to  call  it,  w^ith  vv^hich 
all  the  creatures  in  this  place,  the  birds  in  particular, 
submit  themselves  to  their  destiny.  They  do  not  howl 
and  cry,  brutes  though  they  be ;  they  do  not  endeavor 
to  tear  their  chains  up,  or  beat  down  their  dens ;  they 
find  the  contest  hopeless,  and  they  handsomely  and 
wisely  give  it  up.  It  is  true,  their  wants  are  attended 
to  as  far  as  possible,  and  they  have  none  of  the  more 
intolerable  wants  of  self-love  and  wounded  vanity — ■ 
no  vindictiveness  seemingly,  nor  the  love  of  pure  ob- 
stinate opposition,  and  of  seeing  whose  will  can  get 
the  day.  If  they  cannot  have  liberty,  they  will  not 
disgrace  captivity.  But  then  what  a  loss  to  them  is 
that  of  liberty  !  It  is  thought  by  some,  that  all  which 
they  care  for  is  their  food ;  and  that,  having  plenty  of 

*  Gray's  translation,  "  Perching  on  the  sceptred  hand,"  &c.,  is  very 
fine ;  but  he  lias  omitted  this  exquisite  epithet  of  the  eagle's  sleep,  moist 
(uyf.oi/),  so  full  of  the  depth  of  rest  and  luxury.  Gilbert  West's. version 
of  the  passage  has  merit,  but  he  wanted  gusto  enough  to  venture  on  thia 
epithet,    C^vv  (thanks  to  his  Dantesque  studies !)  has  not  dishonored  it. 

■'  Jove's  eagle  on  the  sceptre  slumbers, 
Possest  by  thy  enchanting  numbers  ; 
On  either  side,  his  rapid  wing 
Drops,  entranced,  the  feather'd  king  ; 
Black  vapor  o'er  his  curved  head 
Sealing  his  eyelids,  sweetly  shed, 
Upheaving  his  moist  back  lie  lies, 
Cleld  down  by  thrilling  harmonies." 

Gary's  Pindar,  p.  G2. 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS. 


this,  they  must  be  comfortable.  But  feeding,  though  a 
pleasure  of  life,  is  not  the  end  of  it ;  it  is  only  one  of 
its  pleasurable  supports.  Or  grant  it  even  to  be  one 
of  the  ends  of  life,  as  indeed  it  may  be  considered  by 
reason  of  its  being  a  pleasure,  more  especially  with 
some  animals  (not  excepting  some  human  ones),  still, 
consider  what  a  far  greater  portion  of  existence  is 
passed  by  all  creatures  in  the  exercise  of  their  other 
faculties,  and  in  some  form  of  motion;  so  much  so, 
that  even  food  would  seem  not  so  much  an  object  of 
the  exercise  as  a  means  of  it — life  itself  being  motion 
in  pulse  and  thought.  Then  think  of  how  much  of  the 
very  spirit  of  their  existence  all  imprisoned  creatures 
are  deprived. 

The  truth  is,  that  if  a  man  has  happened,  by  the 
circumstances  of  his  life,  to  feel  and  endure  much — to 
enjoy  much,  and  to  know  what  it  is  to  be  deprived  of 
enjoyment — and,  above  all,  to  know  v,^hat  this  very 
want  of  liberty  is — this  confinement  for  a  long  time  to 
one  spot — the  sight  of  these  Gardens  ends  in  making 
him  more  melancholy  than  comfortable.  Hating  to  in- 
terfere with  other  people's  pleasures,  or  to  seem  to  pre- 
tend to  be  wiser  or  better  than  our  neighbors  (espe- 
cially when  speaking,  as  circumstances  sometimes 
renc^er  exjiedient,  in  our  own  name),  we  did  not  well 
know  how  to  get  this  truth  out  of  our  lips,  till  seeing 
the  interesting  article  in  the  "  Quarterly  Review"  on 
the  same  subject,  and  finding  the  writer  confessing  that 
he  could  never  pass  by  these  eagles  "without  a  pang," 
we  felt  that  we  might  protest  against  the  whole  business 
of  captivity  with  the  less  hazard  of  a  charge  of  im- 
modesty and  self-opinion.*     Let  us  not  be  understood 

*  "  But  we  must  bend  our  steps  to  the  eagle-house,  and  we  confess 
we  never  pass  it  by  without  a  pang.     Eagles,  laemergyers,  condors, 


78  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

as  implying  blame  against  any  one.  We  have  the 
greatest  respect  for  the  persons  and  motives  of  gentle- 
men who  compose  the  Zoological  Society,  and  who 
have  (as  already  hinted)  given  a  prodigious  lift  in  the 
scale  of  comfort  to  creatures  hitherto  worse  dealt  with 
in  shows  and  menageries.  Their  zeal  in  behalf  of  the 
general  interests  of  knowledge  and  humanity  is,  we 
have  no  doubt,  fervid ;  and  their  plea,  in  the  present 
instance,  is  obvious,  and  (fhless  Parliament  choose  to 
answer  it)  unanswerable.  If  they  did  not  take  charge 
of  animals  for  exhibition,  others  would,  and  would  do 
it  hadly ;  and  the  old  system  would  return.  There 
would  be  no  such  handsome  prisons  for  them  any 
longer  as  the  Marylebone  and  Surrey  gardens.  Grant- 
ed. We  are  only  restoring  the  principle  to  its  element, 
or  pushing  the  abstract  defence  of  the  whole  system 
to  its  utmost,  and  trying  whether  it  would  stand  the 
test  of  a  final  judgment,  if  action  were  free,  and  pro- 
hibition could  be  secured. 

And  why  could  it  not  ?  Why  can  we  have  acts  of 
Parliament  in  favor  of  other  extension  of  good  treat- 
ment to  the  brute  creation,  and  not  one  against  their 
tormenting  imprisonment?  At  all  events,  we  may  ask 
meantime,  and  perhaps  not  uselessly  even  for  present 

creatures  of  the  element,  born  to  soar  over  Alps  and  Andes,  in  helpless, 
hopeless  imprisonment.  Observe  the  upper  glance  of  that  golden  eagle, 
— ay,  look  upon  that  glorious  orb — it  shines  wooingly :  hove  impossible 
is  it  to  annihilate  hope  ! — he  spreads  his  ample  wings,  springs  towards 
the  fountain  of  light,  strikes  the  netting,  and  flaps  heavily  down : — 
'  Lasciate  ogni  speranza,  voi  ch'entrate.'  We  know  not  what  their 
worships  would  say  or  do  to  us,  if  we  were  to  work  our  wicked  will ; 
but  we  never  see  these  unfortunates  without  an  indescribable  longing  to 
break  their  bonds,  and  let  the  whole  bevy  of  these 

'  Soul?  made  of  fire  and  children  of  the  sun ' 

wander  free.' 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  79 

purposes,  whether  a  great  people  under  a  still  finer 
aspect  of  knowledge  and  civilization  than  at  present, 
would  think  themselves  warranted  in  keeping  any  set 
of  fellow-creatures  in  a  state  of  endless  captivity — 
their  faculties  contradicted,  their  very  lives,  for  the 
most  part,  turned  into  lingering  deaths  1  Every  now 
and  then  the  lions,  and  other  animals  in  these  places, 
disappear.  They  die  off  from  some  malady  or  other, 
either  of  inactivity,  or  of  some  other  contradiction  to 
their  natures,  or  from  the  soil  or  climate.  The  "  Quar- 
terly Review"  thinks  that  the  London  clay  is  per- 
nicious to  the  collection  in  Marylebone  Gardens.  The 
Surrey  collection,  though  the  smaller,  is  the  healthier. 
But  how  long  do  the  animals  last  there  ?  Or  is  cap- 
tivity a  good  thing  for  them  anywhere  ? 

The  main  arguments  in  favor  of  such  collections 
are,  that  they  increase  the  stock  of  knowledge,  en- 
courage kindly  feelings  towards  the  lower  creation, 
and  tend  to  substitute  rational  for  irrational  amuse- 
ments. They  who  object  to  them  are  warned,  fur- 
thermore, how  they  render  the  imagination  over-nice 
and  sensitive,  or  make  worse  what  cannot  be  helped  ; 
and  something  is  occasionally  added  respecting  the 
perplexed  question  of  good  and  evil,  and  the  ordi- 
nances of  Providence.  We  have  not  room  to  repeat 
what  has  been  often  said  in  answer  to  reasonings  of 
this  description,  which,  iu  truth,  are  but  so  many  beg- 
gings of  the  question,  all  of  them  to  be  set  aside  till 
the  first  doubts  of  the  manliest  and  most  honest  con- 
scientiousness be  disposed  of.  Providence  is  to  be 
reverenced  at  nil  times,  and  its  mysteries  to  be  brought 
in,  humbly,  when  man  comes  to  the  end  of  his  own 
humble  endeavors  ;  but  till  then  it  is  not  his  business 
to  play  with  the  awful  edge-tools  of  a  rigljt  of  provi- 


80  A    VISIT    TO    THE 

dential  force,  and  its  mixture  of  apparent  evil.  He 
must  do  what  his  conscience  tells  him,  all  kindly,  and 
nothing  (where  he  can  help  it)  with  a  mixture  of  un- 
kindness  ;  and  thus  I  know  not  how  a  conscientious 
naturalist,  setting  aside  the  argument  that  others  will 
do  worse,  could  allow  himself,  if  nations  were  to  come 
to  such  a  pitch  of  refinement  as  above  stated,  to  do 
the  evil  of  imprisoning  and  withering  away  the  lives 
of  his  fellow  animals,  in  order  that  some  problemati- 
cal good  might  come. 

A  paragraph  in  the  newspapers  the  other  day,  speak- 
ing of  a  lion  that  died  after  three  years'  incarceration 
(one  in  four  of  its  whole  life),  said,  that  the  Zoological 
Society  have  "never  been  able  to  keep  any  of  the 
larger  carnivora  longer  than  that  time ;  they  have  lost 
(it  adds)  nine  lions  since  January  1832."  It  is  not 
easy  to  reconcile  this  statement  with  others  which 
tells  us  of  tens  and  twenties  of  years  passed  by  lions 
and  other  beasts  under  the  like  circumstances.  Im- 
prisonments of  that  duration  have  been  known  in  the 
Tower  and  other  places — jails  far  less  favorable,  one 
would  think,  to  the  lives  of  the  inmates,  than  these 
open  and  flowery  spots.  The  Society's  catalogue  in- 
forms us,  that  the  grisly  bear  in  their  possession  "was 
brought  to  England  upwards  of  twenty  years  since 
by  the  Hudson's  Bay  Company,"  and  that  it  remained 
in  the  Tower  till  the  accession  of  his  present  Majesty. 
And  their  harpy  eagle  was  caught  in  1822.  Long 
life  in  a  prison,  however,  is  a  very  diflferent  thing 
from  natural  life  out  of  it. 

At  all  events,  on  the  principle  of  doing  the  very 
best  possible,  would  it  not  be  desirable,  nay,  is  it  not 
imperative  on  societies  possessed  of  funds,  to  enlarge 
even  the  better  accommodation  they  have  provided,  to 


ZOOLOGICAL    GARDENS.  81 

give  elephants  and  giraffes  still  greater  ranges  ;  and, 
above  all,  to  supply  far  better  dens  to  the  lions  and 
tigers,  &c.  ?  For  dens  they  still  are,  of  the  narrowest 
description.* 

*  Since  the  date  of  these  remarks,  the  improvements  here  desired,  we 
understand,  have  taken  place.  The  main  objection,  however,  remains 
to  be  answered. 

i* 


A  MAN  INTRODUCED  TO  HIS  ANCESTORS. 

Astonishing  amount  of  a  man's  ancestors  at  the  twentieth  remove — The 
variety  of  ranks  as  great  as  the  multitude. — Bodily  and  mental  charac- 
teristics inherited. —  What  it  becomes  a  man  to  consider  as  the  result. 

Happening  to  read  the  other  evening  some  observa- 
tions respecting  the  geometrical  ratio  of  descent,  by 
which  it  appears  that  a  man  has,  at  the  twentieth  re- 
move, one  million  forty-eight  thousand  jive  hundred 
and  seventy-six  ancestors  in  the  lineal  degree — grand- 
fathers and  grandtnothers, — I  dropped  into  a  revery, 
during  which  I  thought  I  stood  by  myself  at  one  end 
of  an  immense  public  place,  the  other  being  occupied 
with  a  huge  motley  assembly,  whose  faces  were  all 
turned  towards  me.  I  had  lost  my  ordinary  sense  of 
individuality,  and  fancied  that  my  name  was  Manson. 

At  this  multitudinous  gaze,  I  felt  the  sort  of  confu- 
sion which  is  natural  to  a  modest  man,  and  which  al- 
most makes  us  believe  that  we  have  been  guilty  of 
some  crime  without  knowing  it.  But  what  was  my 
astonishment,  when  a  Master  of  the  Ceremonies  issued 
forth,  and  saluting  me  by  the  title  of  his  great-grand- 
son, introduced  me  to  the  assembly  in  the  manner  and 
form  following  : — 

May  it  please  your  Majesties  and  his  Holiness  the 
Pope: 


A    MAN    INTRODUCED    TO    HIS    ANCESTORS.  83 

My  Lord  Cardinals,  may  it  please  your  most  rev- 
erend and  illustrious  Eminences ; 

May  it  please  your  graces,  my  lord  Dukes  ; 

My  Lords,  and  Ladies,  and  Lady  Abbesses ; 

Sir  Charles,  give  me  leave ;  Sir  Thomas  also,  Sir 
John,  Sir  Nicholas,  Sir  William,  Sir  Owen,  Sir 
Hugh,  &c. 

Right  worshipful  the  several  courts  of  Aldermen  ; 

Mesdames,  the  Married  Ladies ; 

Mesdames,  the  Nuns  and  other  Maiden  Ladies ; — 
Messieurs  Manson,  Womanson,  Jones,  Hervey,  Smith, 
Merryweather,  Hipkins,  Jackson,  Johnson,  Jephson, 
Damant,  Delavigne,  De  la  Bleterie,  Macpherson,  Scott, 
O'Bryan,  O'Shaughnessy,  O'Halloran,  Clutlerbuck. 
Brown,  White,  Black,  Lindygreen,  Southey,  Pip,  Trip, 
Chedorlaomer  (who  the  devil,  thought  I,  is  he?),  Mo- 
randi,  Moroni,  Ventura,  Mazarin,  D'Orsay,  Puckering, 
Pickering,  Haddon,  Somerset,  Kent,  Franklin,  Hunter, 
Le  Fevre,  Le  Roi  (more  French !),  Du  Val  (a  high- 
wayman, by  all  that's  gentlemanly  !),  Howard,  Caven- 
dish, Russell,  Argentine,  Gustafson,  Olafson,  Bras-de- 
feu,  Sweyn,  Hacho  and  Tycho,  Price,  Lloyd,  Llewel- 
lyn, Hanno,  Hiram,  &c.,  and  all  you  intermediate 
gentlemen,  reverend  and  otherwise,  with  your  infinite 
sons,  nephews,  uncles,  grandfathers,  and  all  kinds  of 
I'elations ; — 

Then,  you,  sergeants  and  corporals,  and  other  pretty 
fellows  ; — 

You  footmen  there,  and  coachmen  younger  than 
your  wigs ; — 

You  gipsies,  pedlars,  criminals,  Botany-Bay  men, 
old  Romans,  informers,  and  other  vagabonds  ; 

Gentlemen  and  ladies,  one  and  all ; — 


84  A    MAN    INTRODUCED    TO 

Allow  me  to  introduce  to  you,  your  descendant, 
Mr.  Manson 

Mr.  Manson,  your  Ancestors. 

What  a  sensation. 

I  made  the  most  innumerable  kind  of  a  bow  I  could 
think  of,  and  was  saluted  with  a  noise  like  that  of  a 
hundred  oceans.  Presently  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the 
uproar,  which  became  like  a  fair  of  the  human  race. 

Dreams  pay  as  little  attention  to  ceremony,  as  the 
world  of  which  they  are  supposed  to  form  a  part. 
The  gentleman  usher  was  the  only  person  who  re- 
tained a  regard  for  it.  Pope  Innocent  himself  was  but 
one  of  the  crowd.  I  saw  him  elbowed  and  laughing 
among  a  parcel  of  lawyers.  It  was  the  same  with  the 
dukes  and  the  princes.  One  of  the  kings  was  famil- 
jarly  addressed  by  a  lord  of  the  bed-chamber,  as  Tom 
Wildman  ;  and  a  little  French  page  had  a  queen  much 
older  than  himself  by  the  arm,  whom  he  introduced  to 
me  as  his  daughter.  I  discerned  very  plainly  my  im- 
mediate ancestors  the  Mansons,  but  could  not  get  near 
enough  to  speak  to  them,  by  reason  of  a  motley  crowd, 
who,  with  all  imaginable  kindness,  seemed  as  if  they 
would  have  torn  me  to  pieces.  "  This  is  my  arm," 
said  one,  "  as  sure  as  fate  ;"  at  the  same  time  seizing 
me  by  the  wrist.  "  The  Franklin  shoulder,"  ci'ied 
another.  A  gay  fellow  pushing  up  to  me,  and  giving 
me  a  lively  shake,  exclaimed,  "  The  family  mouth,  by 
the  Lord  Harry  !  and  the  eye — there's  a  bit  of  my 
father  in  the  eye." — "  A  very  little  bit,  please  your  hon- 
or," said  a  gipsy,  a  real  gipsy,  thrusting  in  her  brown 
face :  "  all  the  rest's  mine,  Kitty  Lee's,  and  the  eye- 
brows are  Johnny  Faw's  to  a  hair." — "  The  right  leg 
is  my  property,  however,"  returned  the  beau ;  "  I'll 
swear  to  the  calf." — "  Mais — but — 7iotta  to  de  autre 


HIS    ANCESTORS.  85 

calf,^^  added  a  ludicrous  voice,  half  gruff  and  half  polite, 
belonging  to  a  fantastic-looking  person,  whom  I  found 
to  be  a  dancing-master,  I  did  not  care  for  the  gipsy ; 
but  to  owe  my  left  leg  to  a  dancing-master  was  not 
quite  so  pleasant,  especially  as,  like  Mr.  Brummel's,  it 
happens  to  be  my  favorite  leg.  Besides,  I  cannot 
dance.  However,  the  truth  must  out.  My  left  leg  is 
more  of  a  man's  than  my  right,  and  yet  it  certainly 
originated  with  Mons.  Fauxpas.  He  came  over  from 
France  in  the  train  of  the  Duke  of  Buckingham.  The 
rest  of  me  went  in  the  same  manner.  A  Catholic  priest 
was  rejoiced  at  the  sight  of  my  head  of  hair,  though  by 
no  means  remarkable  but  for  quantity ;  but  it  seems  he 
never  expected  to  see  it  again  since  he  received  the 
tonsure.  A  little  coquette  of  quality  laid  claim  to  my 
nose,  and  a  more  romantic  young  lady  to  my  chin.  I 
could  not  say  my  soul  was  my  own.  I  was  claimed 
not  only  by  the  Mansons,  but  by  a  little  timid  boy,  a 
bold  patriot,  a  moper,  a  merry-andrew,  a  coxcomb,  a 
hermit,  a  voluptuary,  a  water-drinker,  a  Greek  of  the 
name  of  Pythias,  a  free-thinker,  a  religionist,  a  book- 
worm, a  simpleton,  a  beggar,  a  philosopher,  a  triumph- 
ant cosmopolite,  a  trembling  father,  a  hack-author,  an 
old  soldier  dying  with  harness  on  his  back. 

"  Well,"  said  I,  looking  at  this  agreeable  mixture  of 
claimants,  "at  any  rate  my  vices  are  not  my  own." 

"  And  how  many  virtues  ?"  cried  they  in  a  stern 
voice. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  I,  "  if  you  had  waited,  you  would 
have  seen  that  I  could  give  up  one  as  well  as  the  other ; 
that  is  to  say,  as  far  as  either  can  be  given  up  by  a 
nature  ^at  partakes  of  ye  all.  I  see  very  plainly,  that 
all  which  a  descendant  no  better  than  myself  has  to  do, 
is  neither  to  boast  of  his  virtues,  nor  pretend  exemption 


86  A    MAN    INTRODUCED    TO    HIS    ANCESTORS. 

from  his  vices,  nor  be  overcome  with  his  misfortunes ; 
but  solely  to  regard  the  great  mixture  of  all  as  gath- 
ered together  in  his  person,  and  to  try  w^hat  he  can  do 
with  it  for  the  honor  of  those  who  preceded  him,  and 
the  good  of  those  that  come  after." 

At  this  I  thought  the  whole  enormous  assembly  put 
on  a  very  earnest  but  affectionate  face  ;  which  was  a 
fine  sight.  A  noble  humility  was  in  the  looks  of  the 
b&st.  Tears,  not  without  dignity,  stood  in  the  eyes  of 
the  worst. 

"  It  is  late  for  me,"  added  I ;  "  I  can  do  little.  But 
I  will  tell  this  vision  to  the  younger  and  stouter  ;  they 
perhaps  may  do  more." 

"  Go  and  tell  it,"  answered  the  multitude. — But  the 
noise  was  so  loud,  that  I  awoke,  and  found  my  little 
child  crowing  in  my  ear. 


A  NOVEL  PARTY. 


— Hie  ingcntem  comitum  affluxisse  novorum 

Invenio  admirans  numerum. 

Virgil. 
O  the  pleasure  that  attends 
Such  flowings  in  of  novel  friends  ! 


ISpintiial  creations  more  real  than  corporeal. — A  party  composed  of  the 
heroes  and  heroines  of  novels. — Mr.  Moses  Primrose,  who  has  resolved 
not  to  be  cheated,  is  delighted  with  some  ^formation  given  him  by  Mr. 
Peregrine  Pickle. — Conversation  of  the  author  with  the  celebrated  Pa- 
mela.— Arrivals  of  the  rest  of  the  company. —  Tfie  party  found  to  consist 
of  four  smaller  parties. — Characters  of  them. — Character  of  Mr.  Abra- 
ham Adavis. — Pamela's  distress  at  her  brol/ier's  want  of  breeding. — Set- 
tlement together  of  Lovelace  and  Clarissa. — Desmond's  Waverly  asks 
after  the  Antiquary's  Waverly. — His  surprise  at  the  coincidence  of  the 
adventure  on  the  sea-shore. — Misunderstanding  between  Mrs.  Slipslop 
and  Mrs.  Clinker. —  Tlve  ladies  criticised  while  putting  on  their  cloaks. 

When  people  speak  of  the  creations  of  poets  and 
novelists,  they  are  accustomed  to  think  that  they  are 
only  using  a  form  of  speech.  We  fancy  that  nothing 
can  be  created  which  is  not  visible ; — that  a  being  must 
be  as  palpable  as  Dick  or  Thomas,  before  we  can  take 
him  for  granted  ;  and  that  nobody  really  exists,  who 
will  not  die  like  the  rest  of  us,  and  be  forgotten.  But 
as  we  have  no  other  certainty  of  the  existence  of  the 
grossest  bodies,  than  by  their  power  to  resist  or  act 
upon  us, — as  all  which  Hipkins  has  to  show  for  his 


88  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

entity  is  his  power  to  consume  a  barrel  of  oysters,  and 
the  only  proof  which  Tomkins  can  bring  of  his  not 
being  a  figment  is  his  capacity  of  receiving  a  punch 
in  the  stomach, — I  beg  leave  to  ask  the  candid  reader, 
how  he  can  prove  to  me  that  all  the  heroes  and 
heroines  that  have  made  him  hope,  fear,  admire,  hate, 
love,  shed  tears,  and  laugh  till  his  sides  were  ready  to 
burst,  in  novels  and  poems,  are  not  in  possession  of  as 
perfect  credentials  of  their  existence  as  the  fattest  of 
us  ?  Common  physical  palpability  is  only  a  proof  of 
mortality.  The  particles  that  crowd  and  club  together 
to  form  such  obvious  compounds  as  Tomson  and  Jack- 
son, and  to  be  able  to  resist  death  for  a  little  while,  are 
fretted  away  by  a  law  of  their  very  resistance  ;  but 
the  immortal  people  in  Pope  and  Fielding,  the  death- 
less generations  in  Chaucer,  in  Shakspeare,  in  Gold- 
smith, in  Sterne,  and  Le  Sage,  and  Cervantes, — 
acquaintances  and  friends  who  remain  for  ever  the 
same,  whom  we  meet  at  a  thousand  turns,  and  know 
as  well  as  we  do  our  own  kindred,  though  we  never 
set  gross  corporeal  eyes  on  them, — what  is  the  amount 
of  the  actual  effective  existence  of  millions  of  Jacksons 
and  Tomkinses  compared  with  theirs?  Are  we  as 
intimate,  I  wish  to  know,  with  our  aunj,  as  we  are 
with  Miss  Western  ?  Could  we  not  speak  to  the  char- 
acter of  Tom  Jones  in  any  court  in  Christendom  ? 
Are  not  scores  of  clergymen  continually  passing  away 
in  this  transitory  world,  gone  and  forgotten,  while 
Parson  Adams  remains  as  stout  and  hearty  as  ever  ? 

But  why  need  I  waste  my  time  in  asking  questions? 
1  have  lately  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing  a  whole  party 
of  these  immortal  acquaintances  of  ours  assembled  at 
once.  It  was  on  the  15th  of  February  in  the  present 
year..    I  was  sitting  by  my  fire-side  ;  and,  being  in  the 


A    NOVEL    PARTY.  89 

humor  to  have  more  company  than  I  could  procure,  I 
put  on  my  Wishing-cap,  and  found  myself  in  a  new 
little  world  that  hovers  about  England,  like  the  Flying 
Island  of  Gulliver.  The  place  immediately  about  me 
resembled  a  common  drawing-room  at  the  West  end 
of  the  town,  and  a  pretty  large  evening  party  were 
already  assembled,  waiting  for  more  arrivals.  A 
stranger  would  have  taken  them  for  masqueraders. 
Some  of  the  gentlemen  wore  toupees,  others  only 
powder,  others  their  own  plain  head  of  hair.  Some 
had  swords  by  their  sides,  others  none.  Here  were 
beaux  in  the  modern  coat  and  waistcoat,  or  liabiliments 
little  different.  There  stood  coats  stuck  out  with 
buckrana,  and  legs  with  stockings  above  the  knees. 
The  appearance  of  the  ladies  presented  an  equal  va- 
riety. Some  wore  hoops,  others  plain  petticoats. 
The  heads  of  many  were  built  up  with  prodigious 
edifices  of  hair  and  ribbon;  others  had  their  curls 
flowing  down  their  necks ;  some  were  in  common 
shoes,  others  in  a  kind  of  slippered  stilts.  In  short, 
not  to  keep  the  reader  any  longer  upon  trifles,  the 
company  consisted  of  the  immortal  though  familiar 
creatures  I  speak  of,  the  heroes  and  heroines  of  the 
wonderful  persons  who  have  lived  among  us,  called 
Novelists. 

Judge  of  my  delight  when  I  found  myself  among  a 
set  of  old  acquaintances,  whom  Ihad  never  expected 
to  see  in  this  manner.  Conceive  how  I  felt,  when  I 
discovered  that  the  gentleman  and  lady  I  was  sitting 
next  to,  were  Captain  and  Mrs.  Booth ;  and  that  an- 
other couple  on  my  left,  very  brilliant  and  decorous, 
were  no  less  people  than  Sir  Charles  and  my  Lady 
Grandison !  In  the  centre  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Roder- 
ick Random  ;  Lieutenant  Thomas  Bowling,  of  the  Royal 


90  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

Navy  ;  Mr.  Morgan,  a  Welch  gentleman ;  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Peregrine  Pickle ;  Mr.  Fathom,  a  Methodist — (a 
very  ill-looking  fellow) — Sir  George  Paradyne,  and 
Mr.  Hermsprong  ;  Mr.  Desmond,  with  his  friend 
Waverley,  (a  relation  of  the  more  famous  Waverley) ; 
a  young  gentleman  whose  Christian  name  was  Henry 
— (I  forget  the  other,  but  Mr.  Cumberland  knows)  and 
Mr.,  formerly  Serjeant  Atkinson,  with  his  wife,  who 
both  sat  next  to  Captain  and  Mrs.  Booth.  There  were 
also  some  lords  whose  names  I  cannot  immediately 
call  to  mind  ;  a  lady  of  rank,  who  had  once  been  a 
Beggar-girl ;  and  other  persons  too  numerous  to  men- 
tion. In  a  corner,  very  modest  and  pleasing,  sat  Lady 
Harold,  better  known  as  Miss  Louisa  Mildmay,  with 
her  husband.  Sir  Robert.  From  the  mixed  nature  of 
the  company,  a  spectator  might  have  concluded  that 
these  immortal  ladies  and  gentlemen  were  free  from 
the  ordinary  passions  of  created  beings  ;  but  I  soon 
observed  that  it  was  otherwise.  I  found  that  some  of 
the  persons  already  assembled  had  arrived  at  this 
plebeian  hour  out  of  an  ostentation  of  humility  ;  and 
that  the  others,  who  came  later,  were  influenced  by 
the  usual  variety  of  causes. 

The  next  arrival — (conceive  how  my  heart  expanded 
at  the  sight) — consisted  of  the  Rev.  Dr.  Primrose, 
Vicar  of  Wakefield,  with  his  family,  and  the  Miss 
Flamboroughs ;  the  latter  red  and  staring  with  delight. 
The  Doctor  apologized  for  not  being  sooner  ;  but  Mrs. 
Primrose  said  she  was  sure  the  gentlefolks  would  ex- 
cuse him,  knowing  that  people  accustomed  to  good 
society  were  never  in  a  flurry  on  such  occasions.  Her 
husband  would  have  made  some  remark  on  this  ;  but 
seeing  that  she  was  prepared  to  appeal  to  her  "  son, 
the  Squire,"  who  flattered  and  made  her  his  butt,  and 


A    NOVEL    PARTY. 


§1 


that  Sir  William  Thornhill  and  both  the  young  married 
ladies  would  be  in  pain,  he  forbore.  The  Vicar  made 
haste  to  pay  his  respects  to  Sir  Charles  and  Lady 
Grandison,  who  treated  him  with  great  distinction,  Sir 
Charles  taking  him  by  the  hand,  and  calling  him  his 
"  good  and  worthy  friend."  I  observed  that  Mr.  Moses 
Primrose  had  acquired  something  of  a  collected  and 
cautious  look,  as  if  determined  never  to  be  cheated 
again.  He  happened  to  seat  himself  next  to  Peregrine 
Pickle,  who  informed  him,  to  his  equal  surprise  and 
delight,  that  Captain  Booth  had  written  a  refutation  of 
Materialism.  He  added,  that  the  Captain  did  not 
choose  at  present  to  be  openly  talked  of  as  the  author, 
though  he  did  not  mind  being  complimented  upon  it  in 
an  obscure  and  ingenious  way.  I  noticed,  after  this, 
that  a  game  of  cross  purposes  was  going  on  between 
Booth  and  Moses,  which  often  forced  a  blush  from  the 
Captain's  lady.  It  was  with  much  curiosity  I  recog- 
nized the  defect  in  the  latter's  nose.  I  did  not  find  it 
at  all  in  the  way  when  I  looked  at  her  lips.  It  ap- 
peared to  me  even  to  excite  a  kind  of  pity,  by  no 
means  injurious  to  the  most  physical  admiration ;  but  1 
did  not  say  this  to  Lady  Grandison,  who  asked  my 
opinion  on  the  subject.  Booth  was  a  fine  strapping 
fellow,  though  he  had  not  much  in  his  face.  When 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Booby  (the  famous  Pamela)  afterwards 
came  in,  he  attracted  so  much  attention  from  the  latter, 
that  upon  her  asking  me,  with  a  sort  of  pitying  smile, 
what  I  thought  of  him,  I  ventured  to  say,  in  a  pun, 
that  I  looked  upon  him  as  a  very  good  "  Booth  for  the 
Fair  ;"  upon  which,  to  my  astonishment,  she  blusliedas 
red  as  scarlet,  and  told  me  that  her  dear  Mr.  B.  did 
not  approve  of  such  speeches.  My  pun  was  a  mere 
pun,  and  meant  little  ;  certainly  nothing  to  the  disad- 


^2 


A    NOVEL    PARTY. 


vantage  of  the  sentimental  part  of  the  sex,  for  whon* 
I  thought  him  by  no  means  a  finished  companion. 
But  there  is  no  knowing  these  precise  people. 

But  I  anticipate  the  order  of  the  arrivals.  The 
Primroses  were  followed  by  Sir  Launcelot  Greaves 
and  his  lady,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Thomas  Jones,  Mr.  and 
Miss  Western,  and  my  Lady  Bellaston.  Then  came 
Miss  Monimia  (I  forget  her  name)  who  married  out  of 
the  old  Manor  House;  then  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Humphrey 
Clinker  (I  believe  I  should  rather  say  Bramble)  with 
old  Matthew  himself,  and  Mrs.  Lismahago ;  and  then 
a  whole  world  of  Aunt  Selbys,  and  Grandmamma  Sel- 
bys,  and  Miss  Howes,  and  Mr.  Harlowes,  though  I 
observed  neither  Clarissa  nor  Lovelace.  I  made  some 
inquiries  about  them  afteiVards,  which  the  reader 
shall  hear. 

Enter  Mr.  John  Buncle,  escorting  five  ladies,  whom 
he  had  been  taking  to  an  evening  lecture.  Tom  Gol- 
logher  was  behind  them,  very  merry. 

Then  came  my  Lord  and  Lady  Orville  (Evelina), 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Delville  (Cecilia),  Camilla  (I  forget  her 
surname)  with  a  large  party  of  Mandleberts,  Claren- 
dels,  Arlberys,  Orkbornes,  Marglands,  and  Dubsters, 
not  omitting  the  eternal  Mrs.  Mitten.  Mrs.  Booby 
and  husband  came  last,  accompanied  by  my  Lady 
Booby,  Mr.  Joseph  Andrews  and  bride,  and  the  Rev. 
Mr.  Adams,  for  whom  Mrs.  B.  made  a  sort  of  apology, 
by  informing  us  that  there  was  no  necessity  to  make 
any, — Mr.  Adams  being  an  honor  to  the  cloth.  Fanny 
seated  herself  by  Sophia  Western  (that  was)  with 
whom  I  found  she  was  intimate ;  and  a  lovelier  pair 
of  blooming,  unaffected  creatures,  whose  good-nature 
stood  them  instead  of  wit,  I  never  beheld.  But  I  must 
discuss  the  beauties  of  the  ladies  by-and-by. 


A    NOVEL    PARTY.  93 

An  excuse  was  sent  by  Mr.  Tristram  Shandy  for 
his  Uncle  Tobias,  saying  that  they  were  confined  at 
home,  and  unfit  for  company,  which  made  me  very 
sorry,  for  I  would  rather  have  seen  the  divine  old  in- 
valid than  any  man  in  the  room,  not  excepting  Parson 
Adams.  I  suspect  he  knew  nothing  of  the  invitation. 
Corporal  Trim  brought  the  letter  ;  a  very  honest,  pa- 
thetic fellow,  who  dropped  a  tear.  He  also  gave  a 
kiss,  as  he  went  out,  to  one  of  the  maid-servants.  The 
Rev.  Mr.  Yorick,  friend  of  the  Shandy  family,  aent  his 
servant  La  Fleur  to  wait  on  us  ;  a  brisk,  active  youth, 
who  naturalized  himself  among  us  by  adoring  the  ladies 
all  round.  The  poor  lad  manifested  his  admiration  by 
various  grimaces,  that  forced  the  Miss  Flamboroughs 
to  stuflf  their  handkerchiefs  in  tlieir  nioutlis.  Our  other 
attendants  were  Strap,  Tom  Pipes,  Partridge,  and  two 
or  three  more,  some  of  them  in  livery,  and  others  not, 
as  became  their  respective  ranks.  The  refreshments 
were  under  the  care  of  Mrs.  Slipslop  ;  but  underwent, 
as  they  came  up,  a  jealous  revision  from  Mrs.  Lisma- 
hago,  and  Mrs.  Humphrey  Clinker,  who,  luckily,  for 
her,  differed  considerably  with  one  another,  or  none 
would  have  been  worth  eating. 

I  have  omitted  to  observe  that  the  meeting  was  of 
the  same  nature  with  assemblies  in  country  towns, 
where  all  the  inhabitants,  of  any  importance,  are  in  the 
habit  of  coming  together  for  the  public  advantage,  and 
being  amiable  and  censorious.  There  the  Sir  Charles 
Grandison  of  the  place  meets  the  Tom  Jones  and  the 
Mrs.  Humphrey  Clinker.  There  the  Lady  Bellaston 
interchanges  courtesies  and  contempt  with  the  Miss 
Marglands;  and  all  the  Dubsters  in  their  new  yellow 
gloves,  with  all  the  Delvilles. 

Having  thus  taken  care  of  our  probabilities  (or  veri- 


94  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

similitudes,  as  the  critics  call  it)  to  which,  in  our  high- 
est flights,  we  are  much  attached,  we  proceed  with 
our  narrative. 

We  forgot  to  mention  that  Mrs.  Honor,  the  famous 
waiting-maid  of  Sophia  Western,  was  not  present. 
Nothing  could  induce  her  to  figure  as  a  servant, 
where  that  "  infected  upstart,"  as  she  called  her,  Mrs. 
Humphrey  Clinker,  fidgeted  about  as  a  gentlewoman. 

The  conversation  soon  became  very  entertaining, 
particularly  in  the  hands  of  the  Grandisons  and  Har- 
lowes,  who,  though  we  could  perceive  they  were  not 
so  admired  by  the  rest  of  the  company  as  by  one  an- 
other, interested  us  in  spite  of  ourselves  by  the  longest, 
and  yet  most  curious  gossip  in  the  world.  Sir  Charles 
did  not  talk  so  much  as*the  others  ;  indeed  he  seemed 
to  be  a  little  baffled  and  thrust  oflT  the  pinnacle  of  his 
superiority  in  this  very  mixed  society  ;  but  he  was 
thought  a  prodigious  fine  gentleman  by  the  gravest  of 
us,  and  was  really  a  good-natured  one.  His  female 
friends,  who  were  eternally  repeating  and  deprecating 
their  own  praises,  were  "pronounced  by  Hermsprong, 
as  well  as  Peregrine  Pickle,  to  be  the  greatest  cox- 
combs under  the  sun.  The  latter  said  something  about 
Pamela  and  Covent-Garden  which  we  do  not  choose 
to  repeat.  The  consciousness  of  doing  their  duty, 
however,  mixed  as  it  might  be  with  these  vain  mis- 
takes, gave  a  certain  tranquillity  of  character  to  the 
faces  of  some  of  this  party,  which  Peregrine,  and  some 
others  about  him,  might  have  envied.  At  the  same 
time,  we  must  do  the  justice  to  Peregrine  to  say,  that 
although  (to  speak  plainly)  he  had  not  a  little  of  the 
blackguard  in  him,  he  displayed  some  generous  quali- 
ties. We  cannot  say  much  for  his  wit  and  talents, 
which  are  so  extolled  by  the  historian ;  nor  even  for 


A    NOVEL    PARTY.  95 

those  of  his  friend  Roderick  Random,  though  he  car- 
ries some  good  qualities  still  further.  Roderick's  con- 
versation had  the  vice  of  coarseness,  to  the  great  de- 
light of  Squire  Western,  who  said  he  had  more  spirit 
than  Tom  himself  Tom  did  not  care  for  a  little  free- 
dom, but  the  sort  of  conversation  to  which  Roderick 
and  his  friends  were  inclined,  disgusted  him  ;  and,  be- 
fore women,  astonished  him.  He  did  not,  therefore, 
very  well  fall  in  with  this  society,  though  his  wit  and 
views  of  things  were,  upon  the  whole,  pretty  much 
on  a  par  with  theirs.  In  person  and  manners  he  beat 
them  hollow.  Sophia  nevertheless  took  very  kindly 
to  Emily  Gauntlett  and  Narcissa,  two  ladies  rather  in- 
sipid. 

We  observed  that  the  company  might  be  divided 
into  four  different  sorts.  One  was  Sir  Charles  Grandi- 
son's  and  party  ;  another,  the  Pickles  and  Joneses ;  a 
third,  the  Lord  Orvilles,  Evelinas,  and  Cecilias,  with 
the  young  lady  from  the  old  Manor  House ;  and  a 
fourth,  the  Hermsprongs,  Desmonds,  and  others,  in- 
cluding a  gentleman  we  haATe  forgotten  to  mention, 
Mr.  Hugh  Trevor.  In  this  last  were  some  persons 
whose  names  we  ousfht  to  have  remembered,  for  an 
account  of  whom  we  must  refer  to  Mrs.  Inchbald. 
The  first  of  these  parties  were  for  carrying  all  the  es- 
tablished conventional  virtues  to  a  higl^  pitch  of  dig- 
nity ;  so  much  so,  as  to  be  thinking  too  much  of  the 
dignity,  while  they  fancied  they  were  absorbed  in  the 
virtue.  They  were  very  clever  and  amusing,  and  we 
verily  believe  could  have  given  an  interest  to  a  history 
of  every  grain  of  sand  on  the  sea-shore  ;  but  their  gar- 
rulity and  vanity,  united,  rendered  other  conversation 
a  refreshment.  The  second  were  a  parcel  of  wild, 
but  not  ill-natured  young  lellows,  all  very  leady  to  fall 


90  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

in  with  what  the  others  thought  and  recommended,  and 
to  forget  it  the  next  moment,  especially  as  their  teach- 
ers laid  themselves  open  to  ridicule.  It  must  be  added, 
that  their  very  inferiority  in  some  respects  gave  them 
a  more  general  taste  of  humanity,  particularly  Tom 
Jones ;  who  was  a  pleasant,  unaffected  fellow,  and 
upon  the  whole  perhaps  as  virtuous,  in  his  way,  as 
could  be  expected  of  a  sprightly  blood  educated  in  the 
ordinary  fashion.  The  Camillas  and  Evelinas  were 
extremely  entertaining,  and  told  us  a  number  of  sto- 
ries that  made  us  die  with  laughter.  Their  fault  con- 
sisted in  talking  too  much  about  lords  and  pawnbro- 
kers. Miss  Monimia,  too,  from  the  old  Manor  House, 
ridiculed  vulgarity  a  little  too  much  to  be  polite.  The 
most  puzzling  people  in  the  room  were  the  Desmonds 
and  Hugh  Trevors,  who  had  come  up  since  a  late  rev- 
olution in  our  sphere.  They  got  into  a  controversy 
with  the  Grandisons,  and  reduced  them  sadly  to  their 
precedents  and  authorities.  The  conclusion  of  the 
company  seemed  to  be,  that  if  the  world  were  to  be 
made  different  from  wlmt  it  is,  the  change  w^ould  be 
effected  rather  by  the  philosophies  of  these  gentlemen 
than  the  seraphics  of  the  other  party  ;  but  the  general 
opinion  was,  that  it  would  be  altered  by  neither,  and 
that  in  the  meantime,  ''  variety  was  charming  ;"  a  sen- 
timent which  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  took  care  to  ex- 
plain to  his  wife. 

But  how  are  we  forgetting  ourselves  ?  We  have 
left  out,  in  our  divisions,  a  fifth  set,  the  most  delightful 
of  all,  one  of  whom  is  a  whole  body  of  humanity  in 
himself;  to-wit,  Mr.  Abraham  Adams,  and  all  whom 
he  loves.  We  omit  his  title  of  Reverend  ;  not  be- 
cause he  is  not  so,  but  because  titles  are  things  ex- 
clusive, and  our  old  friend  belongs  to  the  whole  world. 


A    NOVEL    PARTY.  97 

Bear  witness,  spirit  of  everything  that  is  true,  that, 
with  the  exception  of  one  or  two  person,  only  to  be 
produced  in  these  latter  times,  we  love  such  a  man  as 
Abraham  Adams  better  than  all  the  characters  in  all 
the  histories  of  the  world,  orthodox  or  not  orthodox. 
We  hold  him  to  be  only  inferior  to  a  Shakspeare;  and 
only  then,  because  the  latter  joins  the  heigh^  of  wisdom 
intellectual  to  his  wisdom  cordial.  He  should  have 
been  Shakspeare's  chaplain,  and  played  at  bowls  with 
him.  What  a  sound  heart, — and  a  fist  to  stand  by  it ! 
This  is  better  than  Sir  Charles's  fencing,  without 
which  his  polite  person — (virtue  included) — would  often 
have  been  in  an  awkward  way.  What  disinterested- 
ness !  What  feeling  !  What  real  modesty  !  What 
a  harmless  spice  of  vanity, — Nature's  kind  gift, — the 
comfort  we  all  treasure  more  or  less  about  us,  to  keep 
ourselves  in  heart  with  ourselves  1  In  fine,  what  a 
regret  of  his  iEschylus  !  and  a  delicious  forgetting 
that  he  could  not  see  to  read  if  he  had  had  it !  Angels 
should  be  painted  with  periwigs,  to  look  like  him.  We 
confess,  we  prefer  Fanny  to  Joseph  Andrews,  which 
will  be  pardoned  us ;  but  the  lad  is  a  good  lad  ;  and 
if  poor  Molly  at  the  inn  has  forgiven  him  (which  she 
ought  to  do,  all  things  considered),  we  will  forgive 
him  ourselves,  on  the  score  of  my  Lady  Booby.  It  is 
more  than  my  Lady  has  done,  though  she  takes  a 
pride  in  patronizing  the  "  innocent  creatures,"  as  she 
calls  them.  We  are  afraid,  from  what  we  saw  this 
evening,  that  poor  Joseph  is  not  as  well  as  he  would 
be  with  his  sister  Pamela.  When  the  refreshments 
v-'^ame  in,  we  observed  her  blush  at  his  handing  a  plate 
of  sandwiches  to  Mr.  Adams.  She  called  him  to  her 
in  a  whisper ;  and  asked  him,  whether  he  had  forgot- 
ten that  tliei-e  was  a  footman  in  the  room? 
vol,.   I.  5 


98  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

The  arrival  of  the  refreshments  divided  our  com- 
pany into  a  variety  of  small  ones.  The  ladies  got  more 
together  ;  and  the  wines  and  jellies  diffused  a  benevo- 
lent spirit  among  us  all.  We  forgot  our  controversies, 
and  were  earnest  only  in  the  putting  of  cakes.  John 
Buncle,  however,  stood  talking  and  eating  at  a  great 
rate  with  one  of  the  philosophers.  Somebody  asked 
after  Lovelace  and  Clarissa;  for  the  reader  need  not 
be  told,  that  it  is  only  in  a  fictitious  sense  that  these 
personages  are  said  to  have  died.  They  cannot  die, 
being  immortal.  It  seems  that  Lovelace  and  Clarissa 
live  in  a  neighboring  quarter,  called  Romance  ;  a 
very  grave  place,  where  few  of  the  company  visited. 
We  were  surprised  to  hear  that  they  lived  in  the  same 
house  ;  that  Lovelace  had  found  out  he  had  a  liking 
for  virtue  in  her  own  shape  as  well  as  Clarissa's,  and 
that  Clarissa  thought  she  might  as  well  forget  herself 
so  far  as  to  encourage  the  man  not  to  make  a  rascal 
and  a  madman  of  himself  This,  at  least,  is  the  way 
that  Tom  Gollogher  put  it :  for  Tom  undertook  to  be 
profound  on  the  subject,  and  very  much  startled  us  by 
his  observations.  He  made  an  application  of  a  line  in 
Milton,  about  Adam  and  Eve,  which  the  more  serious 
among  us  thought  profane,  and  which  indeed  we  are 
afraid  of  repeating  :  but  Tom's  good-nature  was  so  evi- 
dent, as  well  as  his  wish  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  case, 
that  we  chose  to  lay  the  more  equivocal  part  of  his 
logic  to  the  account  of  his  "  wild  way  ;"  and  for  all 
that  we  saw  to  the  contrary,  he  was  a  greater  favorite 
with  the  ladies  than  ever.  Desmond's  friend  Waver- 
ley  asked  us  after  his  celebrated  namesake.  We  told 
him  he  was  going  on  very  well,  and  \vas  very  like  his 
relation  ;  a  compliment  which  Mr.  Waverley  acknowl- 
edged by  a  bow.      We  related   to   him  the  sea-side 


A    NOVEL   J>ARTY.  99 

adventure  of  Waverley's  friend,  the  Antiquary  ;  at 
which  the  other  exclaimed,  "  Good  God  !  how  Hke  an 
adventure  which  happened  to  a  friend  of  our  acquaint- 
ance ?  Only  see  what  coincidences  will  take  place  !" 
He  asked  us  if  the  Antiquary  had  never  noticed  the 
resemblance,  and  was  surprised  to  hear  that  he  had 
not.  "  I  should  not  wonder  at  it,"  said  he,  "  if  the 
incident  had  been  well  known  ;  but  these  Antiquaries, 
the  best  of  them,  have  strange  grudging  humors,  and 
I  will  tell  him  of  it,"  added  he,  "  when  I  see  him." 
Mr.  Waverley  anticipated  with  great  delight  the  so- 
ciety of  his  namesake  with  his  numerous  friends,  though 
he  did  not  seem  to  expect  much  from  the  female  part 
of  them. 

Before  wedbroke  up,  tragical  doings  were  likely  to 
have  occurred  between  the  housekeeper  and  Mrs. 
Humphrey  Clinker.  Mrs.  Slipslop  sent  up  a  message 
apologizing  for  some  of  the  jellies.  She  expressed  a 
fear — (which  was  correctly  delivered  by  an  impudent 
young  rogue  of  a  messenger) — that  "  the  superjliiencj/ 
of  the  sugar  would  take  away  the  tastality  of  the 
jellies,  and  render  them  quite  innoxious.'"  (If  the 
reader  thinks  this  account  overcharged,  we  have  to 
inform  him  that  he  will  fall  into  the  error  of  the  audi- 
ence about  the  pig.)  Mrs.  Humphrey  was  indignant 
at  this  "  infected  nonsense,"  as  she  called  it ;  and  she 
was  fidgeting  out  of  the  room  to  scold  the  rhetorician, 
when  her  husband  called  her  back,  telling  her  that  it 
was  beneath  the  dignity  of  a  rational  soul  like  hers  to 
fret  itself  with  such  matters.  Winifred's  blood  began 
to  rise  at  the  first  part  of  this  observation  ;  but  the 
words,  "  like  hers,"  induced  her  to  sit  down,  and  con- 
tent herself  with  an  answer  to  the  message.  Peregrine 
Pickle,  who  was   sorry  to   see  aflairs  end   ?o  quietly, 


100  A    NOVEL    PARTY. 

persuaded  her,  however,  to  put  her  message  in  writ- 
ing ;  and  Mrs.  Slipslop  would  have  inevitably  been 
roused  and  brought  up  stairs,  had  not  Sir  Charles 
condescended  to  interfere.  The  answer  was  as  fol- 
lows : — 

"  Mrs.  Slibberslop, — Hit  Bing  beneath  the  diggingit  of  a  rasher  and 
sole,  to  cumfabberrate  with  sich  parsons,  I  Desire  that  you  wil  send  up 
sum  geaUies  Fit  for  a  cristum  and  a  gentile  wommun  to  Heat.  We  ar 
awl  astonied  Att  yure  niggling  gents.     The  geallys  ar  Shamful." 

Peregrine  begged  her  to  add  a  word  of  advice  re- 
specting the  "  pompous  apology ;"  upon  which  she 
concluded  thus : — 

"  A  nuthur  tim  doant  Send  up  sich  pumpers  and  Polly  jeers  and  stuf; 
and  so  no  moar  at  present  from  _ 

"  Yure  wel  wisker, 

"  Winifred  Clinker." 

When  the  ladies  had  put  on  their  cloaks,  and  were 
waiting  for  their  carriages,  we  could  not  but  remark 
how  well  Sophia  Western — (we  like  to  call  her  by  her 
good  old  name) — looked  in  any  dress  and  position. 
She  was  all  ease  and  good-nature,  and  had  a  charming 
shape.  Lady  Grandison  was  a  regular  beauty ;  but 
did  not  become  a  cloak.  She  was  best  in  full  dress. 
Pamela  was  a  little  soft-looking  thing,  who  seemed  ''  as 
if  butter  would  not  melt  in  her  mouth."  But  she  had 
something  in  the  corner  of  her  eye,  which  told  you  that 
you  had  better  take  care  how  you  behaved  yourself. 
She  would  look  all  round  her  at  every  man  in  the 
room,  and  hardly  one  of  them  be  the  wiser.  Pamela 
was  not  so  splendidly  dressed  as  her  friend  Lady 
Grandison ;  but  her  clothes  wei'e  as  costly.  The  Miss 
Howes,  Lady  G.'s,  and  others  of  that  class,  were  loud, 
bright-eyed,  raw-boned  people,  who  tossed  on  their 


A    NOVEL    PARTY.  101 

cloaks  without  assistance,  or  commanded  your  help 
with  a  sarcasm.  Camilla,  Cecilia,  and  Evelina,  were 
all  very  handsome  and  agreeable.  We  prefer,  from 
what  we  recollect  of  them.  Camilla  and  Evelina ;  but 
they  say  Cecilia  is  the  most  interesting.  Louisa  Mild- 
may  might  have  been  taken  for  a  pale  beauty ;  but  her 
paleness  was  not  natural  to  her,  and  she  was  resuming 
her  color.  Iler  figure  was  luxuriant ;  and  her  eyes, 
we  thought,  had  a  depth  in  them  beyond  those  of  any 
person's  in  the  room.  We  did  not  see  much  in  Nar- 
cissa  and  Emilia  Gauntlett,  but  they  were  both  good 
jolly  damsels  enough.  Of  Amelia,  we  have  spoken 
already.  We  have  a  recollection  that  Hermsprong's 
wife  (a  Miss  Campionet)  was  a  pleasant  girl ;  but  some- 
how she  had  got  out  of  our  sight.  The  daughters  of 
the  Vicar  of  Wakefield  were  fine  girls,  especially  So- 
phia ;  for  whom,  being  of  her  lover  Sir  William's  age, 
we  felt  a  particular  tenderness. 


BEDS   AND   BEDROOMS. 

Intrinsical  nature  of  bed. — Advantage  of  people,  in  bed  over  people  that  are 
"up." — Dialogue  ivith  a  person  'Hip."—Featlicr-beds,  curtains,  d^c. — 
Idea  of  a  perfect  bed-room. — Custom  half  the  secret  of  content. — Bed- 
room in  a  cottage. — Bed  at  sea. — Beds  in  presses  and  alcoves.— Anec- 
dotes of  beds. —  T/ie  bed  of  Morpheus  in  Spenser. 

We  have  written  elsewhere*  of  "sleep,"  and  of 
"  dreams,"  and  of  "  getting  up  on  cold  mornings,"  and 
divers  other  matters  connected  with  bed  ;  but,  unless 
we  had  written  volumes  on  that  one  subject,  it  would 
be  hard  indeed  if  we  could  not  find  fresh  matter  to 
speak  of,  connected  with  the  bed  itself,  and  the  room 
which  it  inhabits.  We  involuntarily  use  a  verb  with 
a  human  sense, — "  inhabits  ;"  for  of  all  goods  and  chat- 
tels, this  surely  contracts  a  kind  of  humanity  from  the 
warmth  so  often  given  to  it  by  the  comfortable  soul 
within.  Its  pillows — as  a  philosophic  punster  might 
observe — have  something  in  them  "  next  to  the  human 
cheek." 

"  Home  is  home,"  says  the  good  proverb,  "  however 
homely."  Equally  certain  are  we,  that  bed  is  bed, 
however  bedlj/.  (We  have  a  regard  for  this  bit  of 
parody  on  the  old  saying,  because  we  made  Charles 
Lamb  laugh  one  night  with  it,  when  we  were  coming 
away  with  him  out  of  a  friend's  house.)  Bed  is  the 
home  of  home  ;  the  innermost  part  of  the  content.     It 

*  In  the  "  Indicator." 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  103 

is  sweet  within  sweet;  a  nut  in  the  nut;  within  the 
snuggest  nest  a  snugger  nest ;  my  retreat  from  the 
publicity  of  my  priva'cy ;  my  room  within  my  room 
walled  (if  I  please)  with  curtains ;  a  box,  a  separation, 
a  snug  corner,  such  as  children  love  when  they  play 
at  "  house  ;"  the  place  where  I  draw  a  direct  line  be- 
tween me  and  my  cares  ;  where  I  enter  upon  a  new 
existence,  free,  yet  well  invested  ;  reposing,  but  full  of 
power  ;  where  the  act  of  lying  down,  and  pulling  the 
clothes  over  one's  head,  seems  to  exclude  matters  that 
have  to  do  with  us  when  dressed  and  on  our  legs  ; 
where,  though  in  repose,  one  is  never  more  conscious 
of  one's  activity,  divested  of  those  hampering  weeds ; 
where  a  leg  is  not  a  lump  of  boot  and  stocking,  but  a 
real  leg,  clear,  natural,  fleshy,  delighting  to  thrust  itself 
hither  and  thither  ;  and  lo  !  so  recreating  itself,  it  comes 
in  contact  with  another  ;  to-wit,  one's  own.  One  should 
hardly  guess  as  much,  did  it  remain  eternally  divorced 
from  its  companion, — alienated  and  altered  into  leather 
and  prunella.  Of  more  legs  we  speak  not.  The  bed 
we  are  at  this  moment  presenting  to  our  imagination, 
is  a  bachelor's  ;  for  we  must  be  cautious  how  we  touch 
upon  others.  A  married  man  may,  to  be  sure,  conde- 
scend, if  he  pleases,  for  the  triilc's  sake,  to  taste  of  the 
poor  bachelor's  satisfaction.  He  has  only  to  go  to 
bed  an  hour  before  his  wife.  Or  the  lady  may  do  as 
much  vice  versa.  And  herein  we  can  fancy  one  grat- 
ification, even  of  the  bachelor  or  spinster  order,  beyond 
what  a  bachelor  or  spinster  can  often  be  presumed  to 
realize  ;  which  is  the  pleasure  of  being  in  bed  at  your 
ease,  united  with  the  highest  kind  of  advantasfe  ovei' 
the  person  that  is  up.  Let  us  not  be  misunderstood. 
The  sense  of  this  advantage  is  not  of  the  malignant 
kind.     You  do  not  enjoy  yourself  because  others  are 


104  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

in  misery ;  but,  because  your  pleasure  at  the  moment 
being  very  much  in  your  bed,  and  it  not  being  the 
other's  pleasure  to  come  to  bed  so  soon  (which  you 
rather  wonder  at),  you  are  at  liberty  to  make  what 
conclusions  you  please  as  to  the  superior  nature  of 
your  condition.  And  there  is  this  consideration  besides; 
namely,  that  you  being  in  bed,  and  others  up,  all  cares 
and  attentions  naturally  fall  to  the  portion  of  those  in- 
dividuals ;  so  that  you  are  at  once  the  master  of  your 
own  repose  and  of  their  activity.  A  bachelor,  how- 
ever, may  enjoy  a  good  deal  of  this.  He  may  have 
kindred  in  the  house,  or  servants,  or  the  man  and 
woman  that  keep  the  lodging ;  and  from  his  reflections 
on  all,  or  either  of  these  persons,  he  may  derive  no 
little  satisfaction.  It  is  a  lordly  thing  to  consider,  that 
others  are  sitting  up,  and  nobly  doing  some  duty  or 
other  with  sleepy  eyes,  while  ourselves  are  exquisitely 
shutting  ours  ;  they  being  also  ready  to  answer  one's 
bell,  bring  us  our  white  wine  whey,  or  lamp,  or  what 
not,  or  even  to  go  out  in  spite  of  the  rain  for  some 
fruit,  should  we  fancy  it,  or  for  a  doctor  in  case  we 
should  be  ill,  or  to  answer  some  question  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  answering  it. 

"  Who's  there  ?" 

"  Me,  sir  ;  Mrs.  Jones." 

"  Oh,  I  Ijeg  your  pardon,  Mrs.  Jones  ;    I  merely 
rang  to  know  if  you  were  up." 

"  Dear  me,  yes,  sir,  and  likely  to  be  this  hour." 
(Aside  and  happy) — "  Poor  soul  1" 

'•  It's  Mr.  Jones's  club-night,  sir." 
("  Poor  woman  !     Capital  pillow  this  !") 

"  And  it's  a  full  hour's  walk  from  the  Jolly  Gar- 
deners." 

("  Poor   Jones  !     Very   easy   mattress.)      Aloud — 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  105 

Bless  me,  that's  a  bad  business ;  and  it  rains,  doesn't 
it,  Mrs.  Jones  ?" 

"  A  vile  rain,  sir,  with  an  east  wind." 

"  (Poor  Jones  !  Dehcious  curtains  these  !)  Couldn't 
the  servant  sit  up,  and  let  Mr.  Jones  in  ?" 

"  Lord,  sir,  we're  both  of  us  sitting  up  ;  for  I'm 
frighted  out  of  my  wits,  sitting  alone  ;  and  Mr.  Jones 
wouldn't  be  pleased  if  I  didn't  see  him  in  myself." 

"  (Poor  woman  !)  Good  night  Mrs.  Jones  :  pray 
don't  stand  anv  longer  at  tliat  cold  door." 

"  Do  you  want  anything,  sir  ?" 

"  Nothing,  I  thank  you.  I  am  very  comfortable. 
What  o'clock  is  it  r 

"  Just  going  one,  sir." 

"  (Poor  creature  ! — Poor  Susan  ! — Poor  Jones  !) 
Whew  goes  the  wind  ;  palter  go  the  windows  ;  rum- 
hie  goes  a  coach  ;  to  sleep  go  I." 

This  is  pretty  ; — but  a  wife,  instead  of  the  woman 
of  the  house, — a  wife  up,  and  going  about  like  one's 
guardian  angel ;  we  also  loving  her  well,  and  having 
entreated  her  not  to  sit  up,  only  she  is  forced  to  do  so 
for  this  half  hour, — either  \ve  know  nothing  of  bliss 
itself,  or  the  variety — merely  as  a  variety — the  having 
a  whole  bed  for  half  an  hour,  merely  as  a  change  from 
that  other  super-human  elysian  state — the  seeing  even 
a  little  pain  borne  so  beautifully  by  the  "  partner  of 
one's  existence,"  whom  of  course  we  love  the  better 
for  it,  and  cannot  but  rejoice  in  seeing  gifted  with  such 
an  opportunity  of  showing  herself  to  advantaire — all 
this,  if  we  mistake  not  (owing  to  our  present  bachelor 
hallucination),  must  be  a  sublimation  of  satisfaction 
unknown  to  sojourners  at  large,  who  are  but  too  often 
accused,  with  justice,  of  having  more  room  than  they 
know  what  to  do  with. 

5* 


10(5  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

A  bed,  to  be  perfectly  comfortable,  should  be  warm, 
clean,  well  made,  and  of  a  reasonable  softness.  People 
differ  as  to  the  amount  of  the  softness.  The  general 
opinion  seems  to  be  in  favor  of  feather-beds.  To  our- 
selves (if  the  fact  must  be  publicly  torn  out  of  us  by  a 
candor  trying  to  the  sense  of  our  nothingness),  a 
feather-bed  is  a  Slough  of  Despond.  When  we  are 
in  the  depths  of  it,  we  long  to  be  on  the  heights. 
When  we  get  on  the  heights,  down  they  go  with  us, 
and  turn  into  depths.  The  feathers  hamper  us,  ob- 
struct, irritate,  suffocate.  We  lose  the  sense  of  re- 
pose and  independence,  and  feel  ourselves  in  the  hands 
of  a  soft  lubberly  giant.  The  pleasure  of  being 
"  tucked  up,"  we  can  better  understand  ;  but  it  likes 
us  not.  What  we  require  is,  that  the  limbs  should  be 
as  free  as  possible  from  obstruction.  We  desire  to  go 
counter  to  all  that  we  endure  when  up  and  about. 
We  must  have  nothing  constrained  about  us  ; — must 
be  able  to  thrust  arms  and  legs  whithersoever  we 
please.  That  the  bed  should  be  well  and  delicately 
tucked  up,  pleaseth  us  ;  but  only  that  we  may  have 
the  greater  satisfaction  in  disengaging  the  clothes  on 
each  side  with  a  turn  of  the  foot,  and  so  giving  free- 
dom to  our  borders. 

Upon  my  resting  body, 
Lie  lightly,  gentle  clothes. 

Warmth,  cleanliness,  and  ease  being  secured,  it  is 
of  minor  importance  what  sort  of  bed  we  lie  in, 
whether'  it  has  curtains,  or  a  canopy,  or  even  legs. 
We  can  lie  on  the  floor  for  that  matter,  provided  the 
palliasse  be  of  decent  thickness.  The  floor  itself  then 
becomes  a  part  of  the  great  field  of  rest  in  which  we 
expatiate.     There  is  nothing  to  bound  our  right  of  in- 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  lO 

cumbency  ;  we  can  gather  the  clothes  about  us,  and 
roll  on  the  floor  if  we  please.  Much  greater  philoso- 
phy does  it  take,  on  the  other  hand,  to  make  us  go  up 
half  a  dozen  steps  to  our  bed, — to  climb  up  to  such 
lofty  absurdities  as  are  shown  in  old  houses  for  the 
beds  of  James's  and  Charles's  time ;  thrones  rather, 
and  canopies  for  Prester  John  ; — edifices  of  beds, 
where  we  make  a  show  of  the  privatest  and  humblest 
of  our  pleasures  ;  contrivances  for  the  magnificent 
breaking  of  our  necks ;  or,  if  we  are  not  to  die  that 
way,  three-piled  hyperboles  of  beds  to  ingulf  us,  like 
a  slough  on  the  top  of  a  mountain.  Fine  curtains  dis- 
gust us  by  the  same  uneasy  contradiction.  We  do 
not  rrtean  handsome  ones  of  a  reasonable  kind  ;  but 
velvet,  and  such  like  cumbrous  clouds,  lording  it  over 
the  sweet  idea  of  rest,  and  forcing  us  to  think  of  the 
most  out-of-door  pretensions.  And  we  hate  gilding, 
and  coronets  (not  having  any),  and  imperial  eagles, 
and  Jleurs  de  lis,  and  all  other  conspiracies  to  put  out 
the  natural  man  in  us,  and  deprive  the  poor  great 
human  being  of  the  sweet  privilege  of  being  on  a 
level  with  his  reposing  fellow-creatures.  We  are  not 
sure  that  we  could  patronize  Cupids^  gilt  torches, 
doves  and  garlands,  &ic.  Flowery  curtains  we  like  ; 
but  the  Cupids  and  gilt  torches  are  particular.  We 
are  not  the  fonder  of  them  for  being  the  taste  in  France. 
Curtains,  paperings,  plates  and  dishes,  everything  in 
that  country,  babbles,  not  of  green  fields,  as  with  us, 
which  is  pretty,  but  of  gallantry  and  la  belle  passion. 
The  French  (when  they  are  not  afraid  of  being  thought 
afraid)  are  a  good-natured  people  ;  and  they  are  much 
wiser  in  this  good-nature,  than  if  they  took  to  "  heavy 
wet,"  and  to  being  sulky.  But  in  these  amatory  mat- 
ters they  seem  to  us  never  to  make  out  the  proper 


108  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

case.  There  is  something  ever  too  cold,  or  too  mere- 
tricious, probably  both  ;  for  these  extremes  are  too  apt 
to  meet.  Cupids  and  torches  might  be  well  enough, 
provided  we  could  be  secure  that  none  but  eyes  of 
good  taste  would  see  them  ;  but  how  are  they  or  we 
to  look,  when  every  idle  servant,  or  the  glazier,  or  the 
landlord,  or  the  man  that  comes  to  look  at  the  house 
when  it  is  to  be  let,  is  to  gape  about  him,  and  make  an 
impertinence  of  our  loves  and  graces  ? 

But  we  forget  our  solitary  condition. — We  should 
almost  equally  dislike  the  most  gorgeous  and  the  most 
sorry  bedroom,  did  not  the  former  stand  the  greater 
chance  of  cleanliness.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham, 
"  gallant  and  gay,"  in  one  of  the  state  beds  of  Cliefden's 
"  proud  alcove,"  or  reckless  and  drunk  in  "  the  worst 
inn's  worst  room,"  behind  his 

"  Tape-tied  curtains  never  meant  to  draw," 

is,  to  our  mind,  in  no  such  difference  of  condition  as 
the  poet  makes  him  out.  And  his  company  were  much 
like  one  another  in  both  cases.  Nay,  that  is  not  true 
either  ;  for  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  pick  up  such 
an  abomination  from  a  village  ale-house  as  the  Coun- 
tess of  Shrewsbury, — a  Xvoman,  ugly  all  over  with  a 
hard  heart.  Commend  us  (for  a  climate  like  ours)  to 
a  bed-chamber  of  the  middle  order,  such  as  it  was  set 
out  about  a  hundred  years  back,  and  may  still  be  seen 
in  the  houses  of  some  old  families ;  the  room  of  mod- 
erate si^e  ;  the  four-post  bedstead  neatly  and  plentifully, 
but  not  richly,  draperied  ;  the  chairs  draperied  also, 
down  to  the  ground ;  a  drapery  over  the  toilet ;  the 
carpet,  a  good  old  Turkey  or  Brussels,  not  covering 
the  floor,  and  easily  to  be  taken  up  and  shaken ;  the 
wardrobe  and  drawers  of  old  shining  oak,  walnut,  or 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  109 

mahogany  ;  a  few  cabinet  pictures,  as  exquisite  as  you 
please ;  tlie  windows  with  seats,  and  looking  upon 
some  green  place  ;  two  or  three  small  shelves  of  books  ; 
and  the  drawers,  when  they  are  opened,  redolent  of 
lavender  and  clean  linen.  We  dislike  the  cut-and-dry 
look  of  modern  fashions  ;  the  cane  chairs,  formal-pat- 
terned carpets,  and  flimsy  rooms.  Modern  times  (or 
till  very  lately  they  were  so)  are  all  for  lightness,  and 
cheap  sufficiency,  and  what  is  considered  a  Grecian 
elegance.  They  realize  only  an  insipid  or  gaudy  anat- 
omy of  things,  a  cold  pr^ension,  and  houses  that  will 
tumble  upon  the  heads  of  our  grand-children.  But 
these  matters,  like  others,  are  gradually  improving.  If 
our  bed-room  is  to  be  perfect,  it  should  face  the  east, 
to  rouse  us  pleasantly  with  the  morning  sun ;  and  in 
case  we  should  be  tempted  to  lie  too  long  in  so  sweet 
a  nest,  there  should  be  a  happy  family  of  birds  at  the 
windows,  to  salute  our  rise  with  songs. 

It  is  a  good  thing,  however,  to  reflect,  that  custom 
is  half  the  secret  of  content.  The  reason  why  we  like 
a  hard  bed  is,  that  we  were  brought  up  at  a  public 
school,  without  any  luxuries :  and,  to  this  day,  we  like 
just  such  a  sort  of  bed  as  we  had  there.  We  could 
find  a  satisfaction  in  having  the  identical  kind  of  ruff 
over  our  sheets  ;  and  sheets,  too,  of  no  greater  fineness. 
And  the  same  reason  makes  us  prefer  a  coarse  towel 
to  a  fine  one,  and  a  gown,  of  some  sort,  to  a  coat ;  with 
a  pocket  in  the  same  place  as  the  one  in  which  we  used 
to  put  our  marbles  and  tops,  and  our  pocket  editions 
of  Gray  and  Collins.  We  have  since  slept  in  houses 
of  all  sorts — in  rich  houses  and  in  poor,  in  cottages,  in 
taverns,  and  inns,  and  public-houses,  in  palaces  (what 
at  least  the  Italians  call  such),  and  on  board  ship:  yea, 
in  bivouacs — ^just  enough  to  taste  the  extremest  hard- 


110  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

ness  of  the  bed  military  ;  and  for  the  only  contrivance 
utterly  to  vitiate  our  night's  rest,  commend  us  to  the 
bed  of  down.  That,  and  the  wooden  bed  of  the  guard 
house,  disputed  the  palm.  Habit  does  the  same  with 
kings  and  popes.  Frederick  the  Second  preferred 
lying  in  a  little  tent-bed,  such  as  Voltaire  found  him  in 
at  their  first  interview,  shivering  with  an  ague ;  and 
we  learn  from  Horace  Walpole's  Letters,  that  the  good 
Pope,  Benedict  the  Fourteenth,  lay  upon  one  no  better 
(the  paUiasse,  most  probably,  of  his  convent)  by  the  side 
of  the  gorgeous  canopy  prepai'ed  for  his  rank.  In  truth, 
luxuriate  as  we  may  in  this  our  at-different-times-writ- 
ten  article  (wherein  the  indulgences  and  speculations, 
though  true  at  the  moment,  are  of  many  years  chance 
preservation  on  paper,  and  therefore  may  crave  excuse 
if  they  look  a  little  ultra  nice  and  fanciful,  beyond  the 
want  of  experience),  we  should  be  heartily  ashamed  of 
ourselves  at  our  present  time  of  life,  if  we  could  not 
sleep  happily  in  any  bed  (down  and  mud  always  ex- 
cepted), provided  only  it  had  enough  clothes  to  keep 
us  warm,  and  were  as  clean  and  decent  as  honest  pov- 
erty could  make  it.  We  talk  of  fine  chambers,  and 
luxurious  contrasts  of  sitters  up  ;  but  our  secret  passion 
is  for  a  homely  room  in  a  cottage,  with  perfect  quiet, 
a  book  or  two,  and  a  sprig  of  rosemary  in  the  window  ; 
not  the  book  or  two  for  the  purpose  of  reading  in  bed, 
— (having  once  received  a  startling  lesson  that  way, 
and  not  choosing  to  burn  down  the  village,) — but  in 
order  that  we  may  see  them  in  the  window  the  first 
thing  in  the  morning,  together  with  the  trees  of  which 
they  discourse.  Add  to  this,  a  watch-dog  at  a  distance, 
and  a  moaning  wind,  no  matter  how  "  melancholy," 
provided  it  does  not  blow  a  tempest  (for  though  nature 
does  nothing  but   for   good,  the   particular  suffering 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  Ill 

sometimes  presses  upon  the  imagination),  and  we  drap 
to  sleep  in  a  transport  of  comfort.  Compare  such  a 
bed  as  this  with  one  that  we  have  seen  durinsr  a  storm 
of  fifty-six  hours'  duration  at  sea,  the  occupant  (the 
mate  of  the  vessel)  with  his  hands  wet,  black,  blistered, 
and  smarting  with  the  cold,  and  the  very  bed  (a  hole 
in  a  corner)  as  wet  as  his  hands !     And  the  common 

m 

sailors  had  worse  I  And  yet  the  worst  of  all,  shut  out 
from  wet  and  cold  as  they  were,  but  not  having  work 
like  the  seamen  to  occupy  the  mind,  were  the  cribs  of 
a  parcel  of  children  tossing  about  in  all  this  tempest, 
and  the  bed  of  their  parents  on  the  cabin-floor. — With 
these  recollections  (as  the  whole  vessel  got  safe),  we 
sometimes  think  we  could  find  it  in  our  hearts  to  relish 
even  a  feather-bed. 

A  very  large  bedroom  in  an  old  country-house  is 
not  pleasant,  where  the  candle  shows  you  the  dark- 
ness at  the  other  end  of  it,  and  vou  begin  to  think  it 
possible  for  houses  to  be  haunted.  And  as  little  com- 
fortable is  the  bed  with  a  great  dusty  canopy,  such  as 
they  say  the  Highland  laird  mistook  for  the  bed  itself, 
and  mounted  at  top  of,  while  he  put  his  servant  into 
the  sheets,  thinking  that  the  loftier  stratum  was  the 
place  of  grandeur.  Sometimes  these  canopies  are 
domed,  and  adorned  with  plumes,  which  give  them  a 
funereal  look  ;  and  a  nervous  gentleman,  who,  while 
getting  into  bed,  is  iiardly  sure  that  a  hand  will  not 
thrust  itself  out  beneath  the  valance  and  catch  him  by 
the  ankle,  does  not  feel  quite  so  bold  in  it  as  the 
French  general,  who,  when  threatened  by  some  sheet- 
ed ghosts,  told  them  to  make  the  best  of  their  way  off, 
or  he  would  give  them  a  sound  thrashing.  On  the 
other  iiand,  unless  warranted  by  necessity  and  good- 
humor,  which  can  reconcile  anything,  it  is  very  disa- 


112  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

greeable  to  see  sofa-bedsteads  and  press-bedsteads  in 
"  stived-up"  little  rooms,  half  sitting-room  and  half 
chamber.  They  look  as  if  they  never  could  be  aired. 
For  a  similar  reason,  an  Englishman  cannot  like  the 
French  beds  that  shut  up  into  alcoves  in  the  wall. 
We  do  not  object  to  a  custom  merely  because  it  is 
foreign  :  nor  is  it  unreasonable,  or  indeed  otherwise 
than  agreeable,  that  a  bedroom  of  good  dimensions 
should  include  a  partial  bit  of  a  sitting-room  or  bou- 
doir ;  but  in  that  case,  and  indeed  in  all  cases,  it  should 
be  kept  scrupulously  neat  and  clei;n.  Order  in  a 
house  first  manifests  itself  in  the  room  which  the 
housewife  inhabits ;  and  every  sentiment  of  the  heart, 
as  well  as  of  the  external  graces,  demands  that  a  very 
reverence  and  religion  of  neatness  should  be  there  ex- 
hibited ;  not  formality — not  a  want  of  snugness, — but 
all  with  evidences  that  the  esteem  of  a  life  is  preferred 
to  the  slatternliness  of  the  moment,  and  that  two  hearts 
are  always  reigning  together  in  that  apartment,  though 
one  person  alone  should  be  visible. 

It  is  very  proper  that  bedrooms,  which  can  afford 
it,  should  be  adorned  with  pictures,  with  flowers  by 
day-time,  (they  are  not  wholesome  at  night),  and,  if 
possible,  with  sculpture.  We  are  among  those  who 
believe,  with  the  old  romance  of  Heliodorus,  that,  un- 
der circumstances  which  affect  the  earliest  periods  of 
existence,  familiar  objects  are  not  without  their  in- 
fluence upon  the  imagination.  Besides,  it  is  whole- 
some to  live  in  the  kindly  and  tranquil  atmosphere  of 
the  arts;  and  few,  even  of  the  right-minded,  turn  to 
half  the  account  they  might  do  the  innumerable  beau- 
ties which  Heaven  has  lavished  upon  the  world,  both 
in  art  and  nature.  Better  hang  a  wild  rose  over  the 
toilet,  than  nothing.     The  eye  that  looks  in  the  glass 


BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS.  113 

will  see  there  something  besides  itself;  and  it  will  ac- 
quire something  of  a  religious  right  to  respect  itself, 
in  thinking  by  how  man)^  objects  in  the  creation  the 
bloom  of  beauty  is  shared. 

The  most  sordidly  ridiculous  anecdote  we  remem- 
ber of  a  bed-chamber,  is  one  in  the  life  of  Elwes,  the 
rich  miser,  who,  asking  a  visitor  one  morning  how  he 
had  rested,  and  being  told  that  he  could  not  escape 
from  the  rain  which  came  through  the  roof  of  the 
apartment,  till  he  had  found  out  one  particular  corner 
in  which  to  stow  the  truckle-bed,  said,  laughingly, 
and  without  any  sense  of  shame,  "  Ah  !  what !  you 
found  it  out,  did  you  ?  Ah  !  that's  a  nice  corner,  isn't 
it  ?"  This,  however,  is  surpassed  in  dramatic  effect, 
by  the  story  of  two  ministers  of  state,  in  the  last  cen- 
tury, who  were  seen  one  day,  by  a  sudden  visitor,  fu- 
riously discussing  some  great  question  out  of  two 
separate  beds  in  one  room,  by  day-time,  their  arms 
and  bodies  thrust  forward  towards  each  other  out  of 
the  clothes,  and  the  gesticulation  going  on  accord- 
ingly. If  our  memory  does  not  deceive  us,  one  of 
them  was  Lord  Chatham.  He  had  the  gout,  and  his 
colleague  coming  in  to  see  him,  and  the  weather  be- 
ing very  cold,  and  no  fire  in  the  room,  the  noble  earl 
had  persuaded  his  visitor  to  get  into  the  other  bed. 
The  most  ghastly  bcd-fliaiiiber  story,  in  real  life  (next 
to  some  actually  mortal  ones),  is  that  of  a  lady  who 
dreamt  that  her  seryant-maid  was  coming  into  the 
room  to  murder  her.  She  rose  in  the  bed  with  the 
horror  of  the  dream  in  her  face  ;  and  sitting  up  thus 
appalled,  encountered,  in  the  opening  door,  the  sight 
of  the  no  less  horrified  face  of  the  maid-servant, 
commg  in  with  a  light  to  do  what  her  mistress  ap- 
prehended. 


114  BEDS    AND    BEDROOMS. 

To  give  this  article  the  termination  fittest  for  it, 
such  as  leaves  the  reader  with  the  most  comprehen- 
sive sense  upon  him  of  profound  rest,  and  of  whatso- 
ever conduces  to  lull  and  secure  it,  we  shall  conclude 
with  a  divine  passage  of  Spenser,  in  which  he  com- 
bines, with  the  most  poetical  fiction,  the  most  familiar 
feeling  of  truth.  Morpheus,  the  god  of  sleep,  has  an 
impossible  bed  somewhere,  on  the  borders  of  the  sea, 
— on  the  shore  of  "  the  world  of  waters  wide  and 
deep,"  by  which  its  curtains  are  washed.  Observe 
how  this  fictitious  bed  is  made  real  by  every  collateral 
circumstance. 

"  And  more  to  lulle  him  in  his  slumber  soft, 
A  trickling  streame,  from  high  rock  tumbling  downe, 
And  ever-drizzling  raine  upon  the  loft, 
Mixed  with  a  murmuring  winde,  much  like  the  sowne 
Of  swarming  bees,  did  cast  him  in  a  swowne. 
No  other  noise,  nor  people's  troublous  cries 
As  still  are  wont  t'  annoy  the  walled  towne. 
Might  there  be  heard ; — but  carelesse  quiet  lyes, 
Wrapt  in  eternal  silence — farre  from  enemyes." 

Faerie  Queene,  Book  I.  canto  i.  stanza  41. 


THE  WORLD  OF  BOOKS. 

Difficulty  of  proving  that  a  man  is  not  actually  in  a  distant  place,  by  dint 
of  being  there  in  imagination. —  Visit  of  that  kind  to  Scotland. — Sug- 
gestion of  a  Book-Geography ;  of  Maps  in  which  no M  but  poetical  or 
otherwise  intellectually-associated  places  are  set  dotvn. — Scottish,  Eng- 
lish, French,  and  Italian  items  for  such  maps. — Local  literizations  of 
Rousseau  and  Wordsioorth  objected. — Actual  enrichment  of  the  com- 
monest plcuces  by  intellectual  associations. 

TO    THE    KDITOR    OF    TAIt's    MAGAZINE. 

Sir, — To  write  in  your  Magazine  makes  me  feel  as 
if  I,  at  length,  had  the  pleasure  of  being  personally  in 
Scotland,  a  gratification  which  I  have  not  yet  enjoyed 
in  any  other  way.  I  dive  into  my  channel  of  com- 
munication, like  another  Alpheus,  and  reappear  in  the 
shop  of  Mr.  Tait ;  not  pursuing,  I  trust,  anything 
fugitive,  but  behaving  very  unlike  a  river-god,  and 
helping  to  bring  forth  an  Edinburgh  periodical. 

Nor  will  you,  sir,  who  enter  so  much  into  the  in- 
terests of  your  fellow-creatures,  and  know  so  well  of 
what  their  faculties  are  capable,  look  upon  this  kind 
of  presence  as  a  thing  so  purely  unreal  as  it  might  be 
supposed.  Our  strongest  proofs  of  the  existence  of 
anything  amounts  but  to  a  proportionate  belief  to  that 
effect ;  and  it  would  puzzle  a  wise  man,  though  not  a 
fool,  to  prove  to  himself  that  I  was  not,  in  some  spirit- 
ual measure,  in  any  place  where  I  chose  to  pitch  my 
imagination.      I   notice    this    metaphysical    subtlety, 


116  THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS. 

merely,  in  the  first  place,  to  baulk  your  friend  the 
Pechler,  should  he  think  it  a  settled  thing  that  a  man 
cannot  be  in  two  places  at  once  (which  would  be  a 
very  green  assumption  of  his)  ;  and  secondly,  the 
better  to  impress  a  conviction  which  I  have, — that  I 
know  Scotland  very  well,  and  have  been  there  many 
times. 

Whether  we  go  to  another  country  on  these  occa- 
sions, in  the  manner  of  a  thing  spiritual,  our  souls  being 
pitched  outof  ourselves  like  rockets  or  meteors;  or 
whether  the  country  comes  to  us,  and  our  large  souls 
are  inhabited  by  it  for  the  time  being,  upon  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  greater  including  the  less, — the  mind  of 
man  being  a  far  more  capacious  thing  than  any  set  of 
square  miles, — I  shall  leave  the  curious  to  determine  ; 
but  if  I  am  not  intimate  with  the  very  best  parts  of 
Scotland,  and  have  not  seen  them  a  thousand  times, 
then  do  I  know  nothing  of  Burns,  or  Allan  Ramsay,  or 
Walter  Scott,  or  Smollett,  or  Ossian,  or  James  the 
First,  or  Fifth,  or  snoods,  or  cockernonies,  or  gloamin', 
or  birks  and  burnies,  or  plaids,  bonnets,  and  phillabegs, 
or  John  Knox,  or  Queen  Mary,  or  the  Canongate,  or 
the  Calton  Hill,  or  Hume  and  Robertson,  or  Tweed- 
side,  or  a  haggis,  or  cakes,  or  heather,  or  reels  and 
strathspeys,  or  Glengarry,  or  all  the  clans,  or  Auld 
Robin  Gray,  or  a  mist,  or  rappee,  or  second  sight,  or 
the  kirk,  or  the  cutty-stool,  or  golf  and  hurling,  or  the 
Border,  or  Bruce  and  Wallace,  or  bagpipes,  or  bonnie 
lasses. 

"  A  lover's  plaid  and  a  bed  of  heath,"  says  the  right 
poetical  Allan  Cunningham,  "  are  favorite  topics  with 
the  northern  muse.  When  the  heather  is  in  bloom,  it 
is  worthy  of  becoming  the  couch  of  beauty.  A  sea 
of  brown   blossom,  undulating  as  far  as  the  eye  can 


THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS.  117 

reach,  and  swarming  with  wild  bees,  is  a  fine  sight." 
Sir,  I  have  seen  it  a  million  times,  though  I  never  set 
eyes  on  it. 

Who  that  has  ever  read  it,  is  not  put  into  visual 
possession  of  the  following  scene  in  the  "  Gentle 
Shepherd  ?" 

A  flowrie  liowm  between  twa  verdant  braes, 
Whcr.T  lasses  used  to  wash  and  spread  their  claes ; 
A  trotting  burnie,  wimpling  through  the  ground, 
Its  channel  pebbles  shining  smooth  and  round  : 
Here  view  twa  bare-foot  beauties,  clean  and  clear. 

Or  this?— 

The  open  field. — A  cottage  in  a  glen ; 
An  auld  wife  spinning  at  the  sunny  en'. 

Or  this  other,  a  perfect  domestic  picture  ? — 

While  Peggy  laces  up  her  bosom  fair, 
Wi'  a  blue  snood  Jenny  binds  up  her  hair ; 
Glaud  by  a  morning  ingle  takes  a  beck, 
The  rising  sun  shines  motty  through  the  reek  : 
A  pipe  his  mouth,  the  lasses  please  his  een, 
And  now  and  then  a  joke  maun  intervene. 

The  globe  we  inhabit  is  divisible  into  two  worlds  ; 
one  hardly  less  tangible,  and  far  more  known  than  the 
other, — the  common  geographical  world,  and  the 
world  of  books  ;  and  the  latter  may  be  as  geographi- 
cally set  forth.  A  man  of  letters,  conversant  with 
poetry  and  romance,  might  draw  out  a  very  curious 
map,  in  which  this  world  of  books  should  be  delineated 
and  filled  up,  to  the  delight  of  all  genuine  readers,  as 
truly  as  that  in  Guthrie  or  Pinkerton.  To  give  a 
specimen,  and  begin  with  Scotland, —  Scotland  would 
not  be  the  mere  territory  it  is,  with  a  scale  of  so  many 
miles  to  a  degree,  and  such  nnd  such  a  population. 
Who  (except  a  patriot  or  a  ("(jsiuoijulitc)  cares  for  the 


118  THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS. 

miles  or  the  men,  or  knows  that  they  exist,  in  any  de- 
gree of  consciousness  with  which  he  cares  for  the 
never-dying  population  of  books  ?  IIow  many  gene- 
rations of  men  have  passed  away,  and  will  pass,  in 
Ayrshire  or  Dumfries,  and  not  all  the  myriads  be  as 
interesting  to  us  as  a  single  Burns  ?  What  have  we 
known  of  them,  or  shall  ever  know,  whether  lairds, 
lords,  or  ladies,  in  comparison  with  the  'nspired  plough- 
man ?  But  we  know  of  the  bards  and  the  lasses,  and 
the  places  which  he  has  recorded  in  song ;  we  know 
the  scene  of  Tarn  o'Shanter's  exploit ;  we  know  the 
pastoral  landscapes  above  quoted,  and  the  scenes  im- 
mortalized in  Walter  Scott  and  the  old  ballads;  and, 
therefore,  the  book-map  of  Scotland  would  present  us 
with  the  most  prominent  of  these.  We  should  have 
the  border,  with  its  banditti,  towns,  and  woods;  Tweed- 
^de,  Melrose,  and  Roslin,  Edina,  otherwise  called 
Edinburgh  and  Auld  Reekie,  or  the  town  of  Hume, 
Robertson,  and  others ;  Woodhouselee,  and  other 
classical  and  haunted  places ;  the  bower  built  by  the 
fair  hands  of  Bessy  Bell  and  Mary  Gray  ;  the  farm- 
houses of  Burns's  friends  ;  the  scenes  of  his  loves  a«id 
sorrows;  the  land  of  Old  Mortality,  of  the  Gentle 
Shejiherd  and  of  Ossian.  The  Highlands,  and  the 
great  blue  billowy  domains  of  heather,  would  be  dis- 
tinctly marked  out,  in  their  most  poetical  regions  ;  and 
we  should  have  the  tracks  of  Ben  Jonson  to  Hawthorn- 
den,  of  Rob  Roy  to  his  hiding-places,  and  of  Jeanie 
Deans  towards  England.  Abbotsford,  be  sure,  would 
not  be  left  out ;  nor  the  house  of  the  Antiquary, — al- 
most as  real  a  man  as  his  author..  Nor  is  this  all ;  for 
we  should  have  olde"  Scotland,  the  Scotland  of  James 
llie  First,  and  of  "  Peeblis  at  the  Play,"  and  Gawin 
Douglas,  and    Bruce,  and  Wallace;  we  should   have 


THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS.  119 

older  Scotland  still,  the  Scotland  of  Ariosto,  with  his 
tale  of  "  Ginevra,"  and  the  new  "  Andromeda,"  deliv- 
ered from  the  sea-monster  at  the  Isle  of  Ebuda  (the 
Hebrides),  and  there  would  be  the  residence  of  the 
famous  Launcelot  of  the  Lake,  at  Berwick,  called  the 
Joyeuse  Garde,  and  other  ancient  sites  of  chivalry  and 
romance ;  nor  should  the  nightingale  be  left  out  in 
Ginevra's  bower,  for  Ariosto  has  put  it  there,  and 
there,  accordingly,  it  is  and  has  been  heard,  let  orni- 
thology say  what  it  will ;  for  what  ornithologist  knows 
so  much  of  the  nightingale  as  a  poet  ?  We  would 
have  an  inscription  put  on  the  spot — "  Here  the  night- 
ingale sings,  contrary  to  what  has  been  affirmed  by 
White  and  others." 

This  is  the  Scotland  of  books,  and  a  beautiful  place 
it  is.  I  will  venture  to  affirm,  sir,  even  to  yourself,  that 
it  is  a  more  beautiful  place  than  the  other  Scotland,  al- 
ways excepting  to  an  exile  or  a  lover ;  for  the  former 
is  piqued  to  prefer  what  he  must  not  touch ;  and  to  the 
latter,  no  spot  is  so  charming  as  the  ugliest  place  that 
contains  his  beauty.  Not  that  Scotland  has  not  many 
places  literally  as  well  as  poetically  beautiful :  I  know 
that  well  enough.  But  you  see  that  young  man  there, 
turning  down  the  corner  of  the  dullest  spot  in  Edin- 
burgh, witlj  a  dead  wall  over  against  it,  and  delight  in 
his  eyes  ?  He  sees  No.  4,  the  house  where  the  girl 
lives  he  is  in  love  with.  Now  what  that  place  is  to 
him,  all  places  are,  in  their  proportion,  to  the  lover  of 
books,  for  he  has  beheld  them  by  the  light  of  imagina- 
tion and  sympathy. 

China,  sir,  is  a  very  unknown  place  to  us, — in  one 
sense  of  the  word  unknown  ;  but  who  is  not  intimate 
with  it  as  the  land  of  tea,  and  cJiina,  and  ko-tous,  and 
Dagodns,  and   mandarins,  and  Confucius,  and  conical 


120  '  THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS. 

caps,  and  people  with  little  names,  little  eyes,  and  little 
feet,  who  sit  in  little  bowers,  drinking  little  cups  of  tea, 
and  writing  little  odes  ?  The  Jesuits,  and  the  tea-cups, 
and  the  novel  of  Ju-Kiao-Li,  have  made  us  well  ac- 
quainted with  it ;  better,  a  great  deal,  than  millions  of 
its  inhabitants  are  acquainted — fellows  who  think  it  in 
the  middle  of  the  world,  and  know  nothing  of  them- 
selves. With  one  China  they  are  totally  unacquainted, 
to-wit,  the  great  China  of  the  poet  and  old  travellers, 
Cathay,  "  seat  of  Cathian  Can,"  the  country  of  which 
Ariosto's  Angelica  was  princess-royal ;  yes,  she  was  a 
Chinese,  "  the  fairest  of  her  sex,  Angelica."  It  shows 
that  the  ladies  in  that  country  must  have  greatly  de- 
generated, for  it  is  impossible  to  conceive  that  Ariosto, 
and  Orlando,  and  Rinaldo,  and  King  Sacripant,  who 
was  a  Circassian,  could  have  been  in  love  with  her  for 
having  eyes  and  feet  like  a  pig.  I  will  deviate  here 
into  a  critical  remark,  which  is,  that  the  Italian  poets 
seem  to  have  considered  people  the  handsomer  the  far- 
ther you  went  north.  The  old  traveller,  it  is  true, 
found  a  good  deal  of  the  beauty  that  depends  on  red 
and  white,  in  Tartary,  and  other  western  regions ;  and 
a  fine  complexion  is  highly  esteemed  in  the  swarthy 
south.  But  Astolfo,  the  Englishman,  is  celebrated  for 
his  beauty  by  the  Italian  poets  ;  the  unrivalled  Angelica 
was  a  Chinese ;  and  the  handsomest  of  Ariosto's  he- 
roes, Zerhino,  of  whom  he  writes  the  famous  passage 
"that  nature  made  him,  and  then  broke  the  mould,"  was 
a  Scotchman.  The  poet  had  probably  seen  some  very 
handsome  Scotchman  in  Romagna.  With  this  piece 
of  "  bribery  and  corruption"  to  your  national  readers,  I 
return  to  my  subject. 

Book-England  on  the  map  would  shine  as  the  Albion 
of  the  old  Giants ;  as  the  "  Logres"  of  the  Knights  of 


THK    WORLD    OF    BOOKS.  121 

the  Round  Table  ;  as  the  scene  of  Amadis  of  Gaul,  with 
its  island  of  Windsor ;  as  the  abode  of  fairies,  of  the 
Druids,  of  the  divine  Countess  of  Coventry,  of  Guy, 
Earl  of  Warwick,  of  Alfred  (whose  reality  was  a  ro- 
mance), of  the  Fair  Rosamond,  of  the  Arcades  and 
"  Comus,"  of  Chaucer  and  Spenser,  of  the  poets  of  the 
Globe  and  the  Mermaid,  the  wits  of  Twickenham  and 
Hampton  Court.  Fleet  Street  would  be  Johnson's 
Fleet  Street ;  the  Tower  would  belong  to  Julius  Cajsar ; 
and  Blackfriars  to  Suckling,  Vandyke,  and  the  "  Dun- 
ciad."  Chronology,  and  the  mixture  of  truth  and  fic- 
tion, that  is  to  say,  of  one  sort  of  truth  and  another, 
would  come  to  nothing  in  a  work  of  this  kind  ;  for,  as 
it  has  been  before  observed,  things  are  real  in  propor- 
tion as  they  are  impressive.  And  who  has  not  as 
"  gross,  open,  and  palpable'"  an  idea  of  Falsiaff  in  East 
Cheap,  as  of  Captain  Gi-ose  himself,  beating  up  his 
quarters  ?  A  map  of  fictitious,  literary,  and  historical 
London,  would,  of  itself,  constitute  a  great  curiosity. 
So  would  one  of  Edinburgh,  or  of  any  other  city  in 
which  there  have  been  great  men  and  romantic  events, 
whether  the  latter  were  real  or  fictitious.  Swift  speaks 
of  maps,  in  which  they 

"  Place  elephants  for  want  of  towns." 

Here  wouUl  be  towns  and  clepluuits  too,  the  popular 
and  the  prodigious.  How  much  would  not  Swift  do 
for  Ireland,  in  this  geography  of  wit  and  talent  !  What 
a  figure  would  not  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  make  !  The 
other  day,  mention  was  made  of  a  "  Dean  of  St.  Pat- 
rick's" now  living;  as  if  there  was,  or  ever  could  be, 
more  than  one  Dean  of  St.  Patrick's !  In  the  Irish 
maps  we  should  have  the  Saint  himself  driving  out  all 
venomous  creatures  :  (what  a  pity  that  the  most  veii- 
vc  .1.  (> 


122  THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS. 

omous  retain  a  property  as  absentees !)  and  there 
would  be  the  old  Irish  kings,  and  O'Donoghue  with  his 
White  Horse,  and  the  lady  of  the  "  gold  wand"  who 
made  the  miraculous  virgin  pilgrimage,  and  all  the 
other  marvels  of  lakes  and  ladies,  and  the  Round  Tow- 
ers still  remaining  to  perplex  the  antiquary,  and  Gold- 
smith's "  Deserted  Village,"  and  Goldsmith  himself,  and 
the  birth-places  of  Steele  and  Sterne,  and  the  brief 
hour  of  poor  Lord  Edward  Fitzgerald,  and  Carolan 
with  his  harp,  and  the  schools  of  the  poor  Latin  boys 
under  the  hedges,  and  Castle  Rackrent,  and  Edge- 
worth's  town,  and  the  Giant's  Causeway,  and  Ginleas 
and  other  classical  poverties,  and  Spenser's  castle  on 
the  river  MuUa,  with  the  wood-gods  whom  his  pipe 
drew  round  him.  Ireland  is  wild  ground  still ;  and 
there  are  some  that  would  fain  keep  it  so,  like  a  forest 
to  hunt  in. 

The  French  map  would  present  us  with  the  woods 
and  warriors  of  old  Gaul,  and  Lucan's  witch  ;  with 
Charlemaine  and  his  court  at  Tours  ;  with  the  siege  of 
Paris  by  the  Saracens,  and  half  the  wonders  of  Italian 
poetry  ;  with  Angelica  and  Medoro  ;  with  the  castles 
of  Orlando  and  Rinaldo,  and  the  traitor  Gan  ;  with  part 
of  the  great  forest  of  Ardenne  (Rosalind  being  in  it) ; 
with  the  gentle  territory  of  the  Troubadours,  and  Na- 
varre ;  with  "  Love's  Labor  Lost,"  and  "  Vaucluse  ;" 
with  Petrarch  and  Laura,  and  the  pastoral  scenes  of 
D'Urfe's  romance,  and  the  "  Men-Wolves"  of  Brittany, 
and  the  "Fairy  of  Lusignan."  Napoleon,  also  (for  he 
too  was  a  romance),  should  be  drawn  as  a  giant,  meet- 
ing the  allied  forces  in  the  neighborhood  of  Paris. 

Italy  would  be  covered  with  ancient  and  modern  ro- 
mance ;  with  Homer,  Virgil,  Ovid,  Dante,  Boccaccio, 
&c.,  with  classical  villas,  and  scenes  Elysian  and  infei'- 


THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS.  123 

nal.  There  would  be  the  regions  of  Saturn,  during  his 
Age  of  Gold,  and  the  old  Tuscan  cities,  and  Phaeton  in 
the  north,  and  the  sirens  and  fairies  at  Naples,  and 
Polyphemus  in  Sicily,  with  the  abodes  of  Boiardo  and 
Ariosto,  and  Horace's  mount  Soracte,  and  the  Cross 
of  St.  Peter,  and  the  city  in  the  sea,  and  the  golden 
scenes  of  Titian  and  Raphael,  and  other  names  that 
make  us  hear  the  music  of  their  owners :  Pythagoras 
also  with  his  philosophy,  and  Petrarch  with  his  lute. 
A  circle  of  stars  would  tell  us  where  Galileo  lived  ;  and 
the  palace  of  Doria  would  look  more  than  royal  to- 
wards the  sea. 

I  dare  not,  in  this  hasty  sketch,  and  with  limited 
time  before  me,  indulge  hiyself  in  other  luxuries  of 
recollection,  or  do  anything  more  than  barely  mention 
the  names  of  Spain,  Fontarabia,  and  Cervantes  ;  of 
Greece ;  of  Persia,  and  the  "  Arabian  Nights  ;"  of  Mount 
Caucasus  and  Turkey,  and  the  Gothic  north ;  of  El 
Dorado  and  Columbus ;  or  the  sea-snakes,  floating 
islands,  and  other  marvels  of  the  ocean ;  not  forgetting 
the  Atalantis  of  Plato,  and  the  regions  of  Gulliver  and 
Peter  Wilkins.  Neither  can  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
being  suffocated  with  contemplating,  at  proper  length, 
the  burning  deserts  of  Africa  ;  or  of  hearing  the  ghastly 
sounds  of  its  old  satyrs  and  ^Egipans  in  their  woody 
hills  at  night-time,  described  by  Pomponius  Mela;  or 
of  seeing  the  stormy  Spirit  of  the  Cape,  stationed  there 
forever  by  Camoens,  and  whose  stature  on  the  map 
would  be  like  a  mountain.  You  will  be  ffood  enough 
to  take  this  paper  a^  nothing  but  a  hint  of  what  such  a 
map  might  contain. 

One  word,  however,  respecting  a  heresy  in  fictitious 
belief,  which  has  been  uttered  by  Rousseau,  and  re- 
peated. I  am  sorry  to  say,  by  our  excellent  poet  Words- 


124  THE    WORLD    OF    BOORS. 

worth,  the  man  of  all  men  who  ought  not  to  reduce  a 
matter  of  fact  to  what  might  be  supposed  to  be  its 
poverty.  Rousseau,  speaking  of  the  banks  of  the  Lig- 
non,  where  the  scene  of  the  old  French  romance  is 
laid,  expresses  his  disappointment  at  finding  there  no- 
thing like  the  beautiful  things  he  fancied  in  his  child- 
hood ;  and  Mr.  Wordsworth  in  his  poem  of  "  Yarrow," 
Visited  and  Unvisited,  utters  a  like  regret,  in  speaking 
of  the  scene  of  the  "  bonny  bride — the  winsome  mar- 
row." I  know  there  is  such  an  opinion  abroad,  like 
many  other  errors ;  but  it  does  not  become  men  of 
imagination  to  give  in  to  it ;  and  I  must  protest  against 
it,  as  a  flat  irreligion.  I  do  not  pretend  to  be  as  ro- 
mantic in  my  conduct  as  the  Genevese  philosopher,  or 
as  poetical  in  my  nature  as  the  bard  of  Rydalmount; 
but  I  have,  by  nature,  perhaps,  greater  animal  spirits 
than  either  ;  and  a  bit  of  health  is  a  fine  prism  to  see 
fancies  by.  It  may  be  granted,  for  the  sake  of  argu- 
ment, that  the  book-Lignon  and  the  book-Yarrow  are 
still  finer  things  than  the  Lignon  and  Yarrow  geograph- 
ical :  but  to  be  actually  on  the  spot,  to  look  with  one's 
own  eyes  upon  the  places  in  winch  our  favorite  heroes 
or  heroines  underwent  the  circumstances  that  made  us 
love  them — this  may  surely  make  up  for  an  advantage 
on  the  side  of  the  description  in  the  book ;  and,  in  ad- 
dition to  this,  we  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  how  much 
has  been  done  for  the  place  by  love  and  poetry.  I 
have  seen  various  places  in  Europe,  which  have  been 
rendered  interesting  by  great  men  and  their  works ; 
and  I  never  found  myself  the  worse  for  seeing  them, 
but  the  better.  I  seem  to  have  made  friends  with  them 
in  their  own  houses  ;  to  have  walked,  and  talked,  and 
suffered,  and  enjoyed  with  them  ;  and  if  their  books 
have  made  the  places  better,  the  hooks  themselves  were 


THE    WORLD    OF    BOOKS.  125 

there  which  made  them  so,  and  which  grew  out  of  the??i. 
The  poet's  hand  was  on  the  place,  blessing  it,  I  can 
no  more  separate  this  idea  from  the  spot,  than  I  can 
take  away  from  it  any  other  beauty.  Even  in  London, 
I  find  the  principle  hold  good  in  me,  though  I  have 
lived  there  many  years,  and,  of  course,  associated  it 
with  every  commonplace  the  most  unpoetical.  The 
greater  still  includes  the  less :  and  I  can  no  more  pass 
through  Westminster,  without  thinking  of  Milton  ;  or 
the  Borough,  without  thinking  of  Chaucer  and  Shaks- 
peare :  or  Gray's  Inn,  without  calling  Bacon  to  mind  ; 
or  Bloomsbury  Square,  without  Steele  and  Akenside — 
tlian  I  can  prefer  brick  and  mortar  to  wit  and  poetry, 
or  not  see  a  beauty  upon  it  beyond  architecture,  in  the 
splendor  of  the  recollection.  I  once  had  duties  to  per- 
form, which  kept  me  out  late  at  night,  and  severely 
taxed  my  health  and  spirits.  My  path  lay  through  a 
neighborhood  in  which  Dryden  lived  ;  and  though  no- 
thing could  be  more  commonplace,  and  I  used  to  be 
tired  to  the  heart  and  soul  of  me,  I  never  hesitated  to 
go  a  little  out  of  the  way,  purely  that  I  might  pass 
through  Gerard  Street,  and  so  give  myself  the  shadow 
of  a  pleasant  thought. 

I  am,  sir,  your  cordial  well-wisher, 

A  Lover  of  Books. 


JACK  ABBOTT'S  BREAKFAST. 

Animal  spirits. — A  Dominie  Sampson  drawn  from  the  life. — Many  things 
fall  out  between  the  (breakfast^  cup  and  the  lip.-^A  magistrate  drawn 
from  the  life. — Is  breakfast  ever  to  be  taken,  or  is  it  not  7 — The  question 
answered. 

"  What  a  breakfast  I  shall  eat !"  thought  Jack  Ab- 
bott, as  he  turned  into  Middle  Temple  Lane,  towards 
the  chambers  of  his  old  friend  and  tutor,  Goodall. 
"  How  I  shall  swdll  the  tea  !  how  cram  down  the  rolls 
(especially  the  inside  bits)!  how  apologize  for  'ooe 
cup  more  !' — But  Goodall  is  an  excellent  old  fellow — 
he  won't  mind.  To  be  sure,  I'm  rather  late.  The 
rolls,  I'm  afraid,  wild  be  cold,  or  double  baked ;  but 
anything  will  be  delicious.  If  I  met  a  baker,  I  could 
eat  his  basket." 

Jack  Abbott  was  a  good-hearted,  careless  fellow, 
who  had  walked  that  morning  from  Hendon,  to  break- 
fast with  his  old  friend  by  appointment,  and  afterwards 
consult  his  late  father's  lawyer.  He  was  the  son  of  a 
clergyman  more  dignified  by  rank  than  by  solemnity 
of  manners,  but  an  excellent  person  too,  who  had  some 
remorse  in  leaving  a  family  of  sons  with  little  provis- 
ion, but  comforted  himself  with  reflecting  that  he  had 
gifted  them  w^ith  good  constitutions  and  cheerful  na- 
tures, and  that  they  would  '•  find  their  legs  somehow," 
as  indeed  they  all  did ;  for  very  good  legs  they  were, 
whether  to  dance  awav  care  with,  or  make  love  with, 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  127 

or  walk  seven  miles  to  breakfast  with,  as  Jack  had 
done  that  morning  ;  and  so  they  all  got  on  accordingly, 
and  clubbed  up  a  comfortable  maintenance  for  the  pre- 
bendary's widow,  who,  sanguine  and  loving  as  her 
husband,  almost  wept  out  of  a  fondness  of  delight, 
whenever  she  thought  either  of  their  legs  or  their  af- 
fection. As  to  Jack  himself,  he  was  the  youngest,  and 
at  present  the  least  successful,  of  the  brotherhood,  hav- 
ing just  entered  upon  a  small  tutorship  in  no  very  rich 
family  ;  but  his  spirits  were  the  greatest  in  the  family 
(which  is  saying  much),  and  if  he  was  destined  never 
to  prosper  so  much  as  any  of  them  in  the  ordinary 
sense,  he  had  a  relish  of  every  little  pleasure  that  pre- 
sented itself,  and  a  genius  for  neutralizing  the  disagree- 
able, which  at  least  equalized  his  fate  with  theirs. 

Well,  Jack  Abbott  has  arrived  at  the  door  of  his 
friend's  room.  He  knocks  ;  and  it  is  opened  by  Good- 
all  himself,  a  thin  grizzled  personage,  in  an  old  great- 
coat instead  of  a  gown,  with  lantern-jaws,  shaggy 
eyebrows,  and  a  most  bland  and  benevolent  expres- 
sion of  countenance.  Like  mnny  who  inhabit  Inns  of 
Court,  he  was  not  a  lawyer.  He  had  been  a  tutor  all 
his  life  ;  and  as  he  led  only  a  book-existence,  he  re- 
tained the  great  blessing  of  it — a  belief  in  the  best 
things  which  he  believed  when  young.  The  natural 
sweetness  of  his  disposition  had  even  gifted  him  with 
a  politeness  of  manners  which  many  a  better-bred  man 
might  have  envied  ;  and  though  he  was  a  scholar 
more  literal  than  profound,  and,  in  truth,  had  not  much 
sounded  the  depths  of  anything  but  his  tea-caddy,  yet 
an  irrepressible  respect  for  him  accompanied  the  smil- 
ing of  his  friends  ;  and  mere  worldly  men  made  no 
grosser  mistake,  than  in  supposing  they  had  a  right 
to  scorn  him  with  their  uneasy  satisfactions  and  mis- 


128  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

believing  success.  In  a  word,  he  was  a  sort  of  bet- 
ter-bred Dominie  Sampson — a  Goldsmith,  with  the 
genius  taken  out  of  him,  but  the  goodness  left — an 
angel  of  the  dusty  heaven  of  bookstalls  and  the  British 
Museum. 

Unfortunately  for  the  hero  of  our  story,  this  angel 
of  sixty-five,  unshaved,  and  with  stockings  down  at 
heel,  had  a  memory  which  could  not  recollect  what 
had  been  told  him  six  hours  before,  much  less  six 
days.  Accordingly,  he  had  finished  his  breakfast,  and 
given  his  cat  the  remaining  drop  of  milk  long  before 
his  (in  every  sense  of  the  word)  late  pupil  presented 
himself  within  his  threshold.  Furthermore,  besides 
being  a  lantern-jawed  cherub,  he  was  very  short- 
sighted, and  his  ears  were  none  of  the  quickest ;  so  in 
answer  to  Jack's  "  Well — eh — how  d'ye  do,  my  dear 
sir  ? — I'm  afraid  I'm  very  late,"  he  stood  holding  the 
door  open  with  one  hand,  shading  his  winking  eyes 
with  the  other,  in  order  to  concentrate  their  powers  of 
investigation,  and  in  the  blandest  tones  of  2^waifjarenes5 
saying — 

"  Ah,  dear  me — I'm  very — I  beg  pardon — I  really 
— pray  who  is  it  I  have  the  pleasure  of  speaking  to  ?" 

"  What !  don't  you  recollect  me,  my  dear  sir  ?  Jack 
Abbott.  I  met  you,  you  know,  and  was  to  come 
and " 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Abbott,  is  it  ?  What — ah— Mr.  James 
Abbott,  no  doubt — or  Robert.  My  dear  Mr.  Abbott, 
to  think  I  should  not  see  you  !" 

"  Yes,  my  dear  sir  ;  and  you  don't  see  now  that  it  is 
Jack,  and  not  James  ?  Jack,  your  last  pupil,  who 
plagued  you  so  in  the  Terence." 

"Not  at  all,  sir,  not  at  all;  no  Abbott  ever  plagued 
me  ; — far  too  good  and  kind   people^  sir.      Come   in, 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  129 

pray ;  come  in  and  sit  down,  and  let's  hear  all  about 
the  good  lady  your  mother,  and  how  you  all  get  on, 
Mr.  James." 

"Jack,  my  dear  sir,  Jack:  but  it  doesn't  signify. 
An  Abbott  is  an  Abbott,  you  know  ;  that  is,  if  he  is 
but  fat  enough." 

Goodall  {very  gravely,  not  seeing  the  joke).  "  Surely 
you  are  quite  fat  enough,  my  dear  sir,  and  in  excellent 
health.     And  how  is  the  good  lady  your  mother?" 

"  Capitally  well,  sir  {looldng  at  the  breakfast  table). 
I'm  quite  rejoiced  to  see  that  the  breakfast-cloth  is  not 
removed  ;  for  I'm  horribly  late,  and  fear  I  must  have 
put  you  out ;  but  don't  you  take  any  trouble,  my  good 
sir.  The  kettle,  I  see,  is  still  singing  on  the  hob.  I'll 
cut  myself  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  immediately  ; 
and  you'll  let  me  scramble  beside  you  as  I  used  to  do, 
and  look  at  a  book,  and  talk  with  my  mouth  full." 

Goodall.  "  Ay,  ay ;  what !  you  have  come  to  break- 
fast, have  you,  my  kind  boy  1  that  is  very  good  of 
you,  very  good  indeed.  Let  me  see — let  me  see — my 
laundress  has  never  been  here  this  morning,  but  you 
won't  mind  my  serving  you  myself — I  have  everything 
at  hand." 

Abbott  {apart,  and  sighing  with  a  smile).  "  He  has 
forgotten  all  about  the  invitation  !  Thank  ye,  my 
dear  sir,  thank  ye — I  would  apologize,  only  I  know 
you  wouldn't  like  it ;  and  to  say  the  truth,  I'm  very 
hungry — hungry  as  a  hunter — I've  come  all  the  way 
from  Ilcndon." 

"Bless  me  !  have  you,  indeed?  and  from  Wendover 
too?     Why,  that  is  a  very  long  way,  isn't  it?" 

"  Hendon,  sir,  not  Wendover — Hendon." 

"Oh,  Endor — ah — dear  me  {smiling),  I  didn't  know 
there  was  an  Endor  in  England.     I  hope  there  is — 

6* 


130  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

he !  he  ! — ^no  witch  there,  Mr.  Abbott ;  unless  she  be 
some  very  charming  young  lady  with  a  fortune." 

"  Nay,  sir,  I  think  you  can  go  nowhere  in  England, 
and  not  meet  with  charming  young  ladies." 

"Very  true,  sir,  very  true — England — what  does  the 
poet  say  ?  something  about '  manly  hearts  to  guard  the 
fair.' — You  have  no  sisters,  I  think,  Mr.  Abbott  ?" 

"  No  ;  but  plenty  of  female  cousins." 

"  Ah !  very  charming  young  ladies,  I've  no  doubt, 
sir.  Well,  sir,  thei'e's  your  cup  and  saucer,  and  here's 
some  fresh  tea,  and " 

"  I  beg  pardon,"  interrupted  Jack,  who,  in  a  fury  of 
hunger  and  thirst,  was  pouring  out  what  tea  he  could 
find  in  the  pot,  and  anxiously  looking  for  the  bread  ; 
"  I  can  do  very  well  with  this — at  any  rate  to  begin 
with." 

"  Just  so,  sir,"  balmily  returned  Goodall.     "  Well, 
sir,  but  I  am  sorry  to  see — eh,  I  really  fear — certainly 
the  cat — eh — what  are  we  to  do  for  milk  ?     I'm  afraid 
I  must  make  you  wait  till  I  step  out  for  some ;  for  this  _ 
laundress,  when  once  she " 

"  Don't  stir,  I  beg  you,"  ejaculated  our  hero ;  "  don't 
think  of  it,  my  dear  sir.  I  can  do  very  well  without 
milk — I  can  indeed — I  often  do  without  milk." 

This  was  said  out  of  an  intensity  of  a  sense  to  the 
contrary  ;  but  Jack  was  anxious  to  make  the  old  gen- 
tleman easy. 

"  Well,"  quoth  Goodall,  "  I  have  met  with  such  in- 
stances, to  be  sure ;  and  very  lucky  it  is,  Mr. — a — ■ 
John — James  I  should  say — that  you  do  not  care  for 
milk ;  though  I  confess,  for  my  part,  I  cannot  do  with- 
out it.  But,  bless  me !  heyday !  well,  if  the  sugar- 
basin,  dear  me,  is  not  empty.     Bless  my  soul,  I'll  go 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  131 

instantly— it  is  but  as  far  as  Fleet  Street— and  my  hat, 
I  think,  must  be  under  those  pamphlets." 

"  Don't  think  of  such  a  thing,  pray,  dear  sir,"  cried 
Jack,  half  leaping  from  his  chair,  and  tenderly  laying 
his  hand  on  his  arm.  "  You  may  think  it  odd ;  but 
sugar,  I  can  assure  you,  is  a  thhig  I  don't  at  all  care 
for.  Do  you  know,  my  dear  Mr.  Goodall,  I  have  often 
had  serious  thoughts  of  leaving  off  sugar,  owing  to  the 
slave-trade  ?" 

"  Why  that,  indeed " 

"  Yes,  sir ;  and  probably  I  should  have  done  it,  had 
not  so  many  excellent  men,  yourself  among  them, 
thought  fit  to  continue  the  practice,  no  doubt  after  the 
greatest  reflection.  However,  what  with  these  perhaps 
foolish  doubts,  and  the  indifference  of  my  palate  to 
sweets,  sugar  is  a  mere  drug  to  me,  sir — a  mere  drug." 

"Well,  but " 

•'  Nay,  dear  sir,  you  will  distress  me  if  you  say  an- 
other word  upon  the  matter — you  will  indeed :  see  how 
I  drink."  (And  here  Jack  made  as  if  he  took  a  hasty 
gulp  of  his  milkless  and  sugarless  water.)  "  The  bread, 
my  dear  sir — the  bread  is  all  I  require ;  just  that  piece 
which  you  were  going  to  take  up.  You  remember 
how  I  used  to  stuff  bread,  and  fill  the  book  I  was  read- 
ing with  crumbs  ?  I  dare  say  the  old  Euripides  is 
bulging  out  with  them  now." 

"  Well,  sir — ah—  em — ah — well,  indeed,  you're  very 
good,  and,  I'm  sure,  very  temperate ;  but,  dear  me — 
well,  this  laundress  of  mine — I  must  certainly  get  rid 
of  her  thievini; — rheumatism,  I  should  say  ;  but  butler! 
I  vow  I  do  not " 

"Butter!"  interrupted  our  hero,  in  a  tone  of  the 
greatest  scorn,  "  Why  I  haven't  eaten  butter  I  don't 
know  when.     Not  a  step,  sir,  not  a  step.     And  now 


132  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

let  me  tell  you  I  must  make  haste,  for  I've  got  to  lunch 
with  my  lawyer,  and  he'll  expect  me  to  eat  something ; 
and  in  fact  I'm  so  anxious,  and  feel  so  hurried,  that 
now  I  have  eaten  a  good  piece  of  my  hunk,  I  must  be 
off,  my  good  sir — I  must,  indeed." 

To  say  the  truth,  Jack's  hunk  was  a  good  three  days 
old,  if  an  hour  ;  and  so  hard,*  that  even  his  hunger  and 
fine  teeth  could  not  find  it  in  the  hearts  of  them  to  rel- 
ish it  wath  the  cold  slop ;  so  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  seek  the  nearest  coffee-house  as  fast  as  possible, 
and  there  have  the  heartiest  and  most  luxurious  break- 
fast that  could  make  amends  for  his  disappointment. 
After  reconciling  the  old  gentleman,  however,  to  his 
departure,  he  sat  a  little  longer,  out  of  decency  and  re- 
spect, listening,  with  a  benevolence  equal  to  his  appe- 
tite, to  the  perusal  of  a  long  passage  in  Cowley,  which 
Goodall  had  been  reading  when  he  arrived,  and  the 
recitation  of  which  was  prolonged  by  the  inflictor  with 
admiring  repetitions,  and  bland  luxuriations  of  com- 
ment. 

"  What  an  excellent  good  fellow  he  is  !"  thought 
Jack ;  "  and  what  a  very  unshaved  face  he  has,  and 
neglectful  washerwoman !" 

At  length  he  found  it  the  more  easy  to  get  away, 

inasmuch  as  Goodall  said  he  was  himself  in  the  habit 

of  going  out  about  that  time  to  a  coffee-house  to  look 

at  the  papers  before  he  went  the  round  of  his  pupils ; 

but  he  had  to  shave  first,  and  would  not  detain  Mr. 

Abbott,  if  he  must  go. 

*  People  of  regular  comfortable  lives,  breakfasts,  and  conveniences, 
must  be  cautious  how  they  take  pictures  like  these  for  caricatures. 
The  very  letter  of  the  adventure  above  described,  with  the  exception  of 
a  few  words,  has  actually  happened.  And  so,  with  the  same  difference, 
has  that  of  the  sheep  and  hackney-coach,  narrated  in  the  "  Disasters 
of  Carfington  Blundell." 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  133 

Being  once  more  out  of  doors,  our  hero  rushes  back 
like  a  tiger  into  Fleet  Street,  and  plunges  into  the  first 
coffee-house  in  sight. 

"  Waiter !" 

"  Yessir." 

"  Breakfast  immediately.  Tea,  black  and  green,  and 
all  thjit." 

"  Yessir.     Eggs  and  toast,  sir  ?" 

"  By  all  means." 

"  Yessii'.     Any  ham,  sir  ?" 

"  Just  so,  and  instantly." 

"  Yessi7\     Cold  fowl,  sir  ?" 

"  Precisely  ;  &nd  no  delay." 

"  Yessir.     Anchovy  perhaps,  sir  ?" 

"  By  all — eh  ^ — no,  I  don't  care  for  anchovy — but 
pray  bring  what  you  like  ;  and  above  all,  make  haste, 
my  good  fellow — no  delay — I'm  as  hungry  as  the 
devil." 

"  Yessir — coming  directly,  sir.  ('  Good  chap  and 
great  fool,'  said  the  waiter  to  himself.)  Like  the 
newspaper,  sir  ?" 

"  Thankye.     Now  for  Heaven's  sake " 

"  Yessir — immediately,  sir — everything  ready,  sir." 

"  Everything  ready  !"  thought  Jack.  "  Cheering 
sound  !  Beautiful  place  a  coffee-house  !  Fine  Eng- 
lish place — everything  so  snug  and  at  hand — so  com- 
fortable— so  easy — have  what  you  like,  and  without 
fuss.  What  a  breakfast  I  shall  eat !  And  the  paper 
too — hum,  hum  {reading) — Horrid  Murder — Myste- 
rious Affair — Express  from  Paris — Assassination — in- 
tense. Bless  me  !  what  horrible  things — how  very 
comfortable.     Wiiat  toast  I Waiter  !" 

Waiter,  from  a  distance.     "  Yessir — coming,  sir." 


134  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

Tn  a  few  minutes  everything  is  served  up — the  toast 
hot  and  rich — eggs  plump — ham  huge,  &c. 

"  You've  another  slice  of  toast  getting  ready  ?"  said 
Jack. 

"  Yessir." 

"  Let  the  third,  if  you  please,  be  thicker  ;  and  the 
fourth." 

"  Glorious  moment !"  inwardly  ejaculated  our  hero. 
He  had  doubled  the  paper  conveniently,  so  as  to  read 
the  "  Express  from  Paris"  in  perfect  comfort ;  and  be- 
fore he  poured  out  his  tea,  he  was  in  the  act  of  putting 
his  hand  to  one  of  the  inner  pieces  of  toast,  when — 
awful  visitation  ! — whom  should  he  see  "passing  the  win- 
dow, with  the  evident  design  of  turning  into  the  coffee- 
house, but  his  too-carelessly  and  swiftly  shaved  friend 
Goodall.  He  was  coming,  of  course,  to  read  the  pa- 
pers. Yes,  such  was  his  horrible  inconv^enient  prac- 
tice, as  Jack  had  too  lately  heard  him  say  ;  and  this, 
of  all  coffee-houses  in  the  world,  was  the  one  he  must 
needs  go  to. 

What  was  to  be  done  ?  Jack  Abbott,  who  was  not 
at  all  a  man  of  manoeuvres,  much  less  gifted  with  that 
sort  of  impudence  which  can  risk  hurting  another's 
feelings,  thought  there  was  nothing  left  for  him  but  to 
bolt ;  and  accordingly,  after  hiding  his  face  with  the 
newspaper  till  Goodall  had  taken  up  another,  he  did 
so  as  if  a  bailiff  v/as  after  him,  brushing  past  the 
waiter  who  had  brought  it  him,  and  who  had  just  seen 
another  person  out.  The  waiter,  to  his  astonishment 
sees  him  plunge  into  another  coffee-house  over  the 
way  ;  then  hastens  back  to  see  if  anything  be  missing ; 
and  finding  all  safe,  concludes  he  must  have  run  over 
to  speak  to  some  friend,  perhaps  upon  some  business 


JACK  Abbott's  breaktast.  135 

suddenly  called  to  mind,  especially  as  he  seemed  "  such 
a  hasty  gentleman." 

Meanwhile,  Jack,  twice  exasperated  with  hunger, 
but  congratulating  himself  that  he  had  neither  been 
seen  by  Goodall,  nor  tasted  a  breakfast  unpaid  for,  has 
ordered  precisely  such  another  breakfast,  and  has  got 
the  same  newspaper,  and  seated  himself  as  nearly  as 
possible  in  the  very  same  sort  of  place. 

"  Now"  thought  he,  "  I  am  beyond  the  reach  of 
chance.  No  such  ridiculous  hazard  as  this  can  find 
me  here.  Goodall  cannot  read  the  papers  in  two 
coffee-houses.  By  Jove  !  was  there  ever  a  man  so 
hungry  as  I  am  ?     What  a  breakfast  I  shall  eat  !" 

Enter  breakfast  served  up  as  before — toast  hot  and 
rich — eggs  plump — ham  huge,  &;c.  Homer  himself, 
who  was  equally  fond  of  a  repetition  and  a  good 
meal,  would  have  liked  to  re-describe  it.  "Glorious 
moment !"  Jack  has  got  the  middle  bit  of  toast  in 
his  fingers,  precisely  as  before,  when  happening  to 
cast  his  eye  at  the  door,  he  sees  the  waiter  of  the 
former  coffee-house  pop  his  head  in,  look  him  full  in 
the  face,  and  as  suddenlv  withdraw  it.  Back  ffoes  the 
toast  on  the  plate ;  up  springs  poor  Abbott  to  the 
door,  and  hardly  taking  time  to  observe  that  his  visi- 
tant is  not  in  sight,  rushes  forth  for  the  second  time, 
and  makes  out  as  fast  as  he  can  for  a  third  cofiee-ho^e. 

"  Am  I  never  to  breakfast  ?"  thought  he.  "  Nay, 
breakfast  I  will.  People  can't  go  into  three  coffee- 
houses on  purpose  to  go  out  again.  But  suppose  the 
dog  should  have  seen  me !  Not  likely,  or  I  should 
have  seen  him  again.  lie  may  have  gone  and  told 
the  people ;  but  I've  hardly  got  out  of  the  second 
coffee-house  before  I've  found  a  third.  Bless  this 
confounded  Fleet  Street — Most  convenient  place  for 


136  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

diving  in  and  out  of  coffee-houses  !  Dr.  Johnson's 
street — '  High  tide  of  human  existence' — ready  break- 
fasts.    What  a  breakfast  I  will  eat  !" 

Jack  Abbott,  after  some  delay,  owing  to  the  fulness 
of  the  room,  is  seated  as  before — the  waiter  has 
yessir'd  to  their  mutual  content — the  toast  is  done — 
Homeric  repetition — eggs  plump,  ham  huge,  &c. 

"  By  Hercules,  who  was  the  greatest  twist  of  anti- 
quity, what  a  breakfast  I  ivill,  shall,  must,  and  have 
now  certainly  got  to  eat !  I  could  not  have  stood  it 
any  longer.  Now,  now,  now,  is  the  moment  of  mo- 
ments." 

Jack  Abbott  has  put  his  hand  to  the  toast. 

Unluckily,  there  were  three  pair  of  eyes  which  had 
been  observing  him  all  the  while  from  over  the  curtain 
of  the  landlord's  little  parlor  ;  to- wit,  the  waiter's  of 
the  first  tavern,  the  waiter's  of  the  second,  and  the 
landlord's  of  the  third.  The  two  waiters  had  got  in 
time  to  the  door  of  tavern  the  second,  to  watch  his 
entrance  into  tavern  the  third  ;  and  both  communi- 
cating the  singular  fact  to  the  landlord  of  the  same, 
the  latter  resolved  upon  a  certain  mode  of  action, 
which  was  now  to  develop  itself. 

"Well,"  said  the  first  waiter,  "I've  seen  strange 
chaps  in  my  time  in  coffee-houses  ;  but  this  going 
ablaut,  ordering  breakfasts  which  a  man  doesn't  eat, 
beats  everything  !  and  he  hasn't  taken  a  spoon  or  any- 
thing as  I  see.  He  doesn't  seem  to  be  looking  about 
him,  you  see  ;  he  reads  the  paper  as  quiet  as  an  old 
gentleman." 

"  Just  for  all  the  world  as  he  did  in  our  house,"  said 
the  second  waiter ;  "  and  he's  very  pleasant  and  easy- 
like  in  his  ways." 

"Pleasant  and    easy!"   cried    the   landlord,  whose 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  137 

general  scepticism  was  sharpened  by  gout  and  a  late 
loss  of  spoons.  "  Yes,  yes  ;  I've  seen  plenty  of  your 
pleasant  and  easy  fellows — palavering  rascals,  who 
come,  hail-fellow-well-met,  with  a  bit  of  truth  mayhap 
in  their  mouths,  just  to  sweeten  a  parcel  of  lies  and 
swindling.  'Twas  only  last  Friday  I  lost  a  matter  of 
fifty  shillings'  worth  of  plate  by  such  a  chap ;  and  I 
vowed  I'd  nab  the  next.  Only  let  him  eat  one  mouth- 
ful, just  to  give  a  right  o'  search,  and  see  how  I'll 
pounce  on  him." 

But  Jack  didn't  eat  one  mouthful  !  No ;  not  even 
though  he  was  uninterrupted,  and  really  had  now  a 
fair  field  before  him,  and  was  in  the  very  agonies  of 
hunger.  It  so  happened,  that  he  had  hardly  taken  up 
the  piece  of  toast  above  mentioned,  when  with  a  vol- 
.  untary  (as  it  seemed)  and  strange  look  of  misgiving, 
he  laid  it  down  again ! 

"  I'm  blessed  if  he's  touched  it,  after  all,"  said  waiter 
the  first.  "  Well,  this  beats  everything  !  See  how 
he  looks  about  him  !  He's  feeling  in  his  pockets 
thouffh." 

"Ah,  look  at  that!"  says  the  landlord.  "He's  a 
precious  rascal,  depend  on't.  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  he 
whisk'd  something  out  of  the  next  box  ;  but  we'll  nab 
him.     Let  us  e:o  to  the  door." 

Mr.  Abbott — Jack  seems  too  light  an  appellation  for 
one  under  his  circumstances — looked  exceedingly  dis- 
tressed. He  gazed  at  the  toast  with  a  manifest  sigh ; 
then  glanced  cautiously  around  him  ;  then  again  felt 
his  pockets.  At  length,  he  positively  showed  symp- 
toms of  quitting  his  seat.  It  was  clear  he  did  not  in 
tend  eating  a  bit  of  this  breakfast,  any  more  than  of 
the  two  others. 


138  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

"  I'll  be  hanged  if  he  ain't  going  to  bolt  again,"  said 
the  waiter. 

"  Nab  him  !"  said  the  landlord. 

The  unhappy,  and,  as  he  thought,  secret  Abbott 
makes  a  desperate  movement  to  the  door,  and  is  re- 
ceived into  the  arms  of  this  triple  alliance. 

"  Search  his  pockets  !"  cried  the  landlord. 

"  Three  breakfasts,  and  ne'er  a  one  of  'em  eaten  !" 
cried  first  waiter. 

"  Breakfasts  afore  he  collects  his  spoons,"  cried 
second. 

Our  hero's  pockets  were  searched  almost  before  he 
was  aware  ;  and  nothing  found  but  a  book  in  an  un- 
known language,  and  a  pocket  handkerchief.  He  en- 
couraged the  search,  however,  as  soon  as  his  astonish- 
ment allowed  him  to  be  sensible  of  it,  with  an  air  of. 
bewildered  resignation. 

"  He's  a  Frenchman,"  said  first  waiter. 

"  He  hasn't  a  penny  in  his  pockets,"  said  second. 

"  What  a  villain  !"  said  the  landlord. 

"  You're  under  a  mistake — you  are,  upon  my  soul !" 
cried  poor  Jack.     "  I  grant  it's  odd  ;  but " 

"  Bother  and  stufli* !"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  where  did 
you  put  my  spoons  last  Friday?" 

"  Spoons  !"  echoed  Jack  ;  "  why  I  haven't  eaten 
even  a  bit  of  your  breakfast.'' 

By  this  time  all  the  people  in  the  cofiee-room  had 
crowded  into  the  passage,  and  a  plentiful  mob  was 
gathering  at  the  door. 

"  Here's  a  chap  has  had  three  breakfasts  this  morn- 
ing," exclaimed  the  landlord,  "  and  eat  ne'er  a  one !" 

"  Three  breakfasts  !"  cried  a  broad,  dry-looking  gen- 
tleman in  spectacles,  with  a  deposition-taking  sort  of 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  139 

face ;  "  how  could  he  possibly  do  that  ?  and  why  did 
you  serve  him  ?" 

"  Three  breakfasts  in  three  different  houses,  I  tell 
you,"  said  the  landlord  ;  "  he's  been  to  my  house  ;  and 
to  this  man's  house ;  and  to  this  man's ;  and  we've 
searched  him,  and  he  hasn't  a  penny  in  his  pocket." 

"  That's  it,"  exclaimed  Jack,  who  had,  in  vain,  tried 
to  be  heard  ;  "  that's  the  very  reason." 

"What's  the  very  reason ?"  said  the  gentleman  in 
spectacles. 

"  Why,  I  was  shock'd  to  find,  just  now,  that  I  had 
left  my  purse  at  home,  in  the  hurry  of  coming  out, 
and " 

"  Oh  !  oh  !"  cried  the  laughing  audience  ;  "  here's 
the  policeman  :  he'll  settle  him." 

"  But  how  does  that  explain  the  two  other  break- 
fasts ?"  returned  the  gentleman. 

"  Not  at  all,"  said  Jack. 

"  Impudent  rascal !"  said  the  landlord.  Here  the 
policeman  is  receiving  a  bye  explanation,  while  Jack 
is  raising  his  voice  to  proceed. 

"  I  mean,"  said  he,  "  that  that  doesn't  explain  it ;  but 
I  can  explain  it." 

"  Well,  how,  my  fine  fellow  ?"  said  the  gentleman, 
hushing  the  angry  landlord,  who  had,  meanwhile, 
given  our  hero  in  charge. 

"Don't  lay  hands  on  me,  any  of  you,"  cried  our 
hero ;  "  I'll  go  quietly  anywhere,  if  you  let  me  alone  ; 
but  first  let  me  explain." 

"  Hear  him,  hear  him  !"  cried  the  spectators  ;  "  and 
watch  your  pockets." 

Here  Jack,  reasonably  thinking  that  nothing  would 
help  him  out  if  the  truth  did  not,  but  not  aware  that 
the  truth  does  not  always  have  its  just  effect,  especially 


140  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

when  of  an  extraordinary  description,  gave  a  rapid, 
but  reverent  statement  of  the  character  of  his  friend 
in  the  neighborhood,  whose  breakfast  had  been  so  in- 
efficient ;  then  an  account  (all  which  excited  laughter 
and  derision)  of  his  going  into  the  first  coffee-house, 
and  seeing  his  friend  come  in  (which,  nevertheless, 
had  a  great  effect  on  the  first  waiter,  who  knew  the 
old  gentleman),  and  so  on  of  his  subsequent  proceed- 
ings ;  a  development  which  succeeded  in  pacifying 
both  the  waiters,  who  had,  in  fact,  lost  nothing :  so, 
coming  to  an  understanding  with  one  another,  they 
slipped  away,  much  to  the  anger  and  astonishment  of 
the  landlord.  This  pei'sonage,  whose  whole  man, 
since  he  left  oft'  their  active  life,  had  become  afiected 
with  drams  and  tit-bits,  and  whose  irritability  was  ag- 
gravated by  the  late  loss  of  his  spoons,  persisted  in 
giving  poor  unbreakfasted  Jack  in  charge,  especially 
when  he  found  that  he  would  not  send  for  a  character 
to  the  friend  he  had  been  speaking  of,  and  that  he  had 
no  other  in  town  but  a  lawyer,  who  lived  at  the  end 
of  it.     And  so  off  goes  our  hero  to  the  police-office. 

"  You,  perhaps,  any  more  than  my  irritable  friend 
here,  don't  know  the  sort  of  literary  old  gentleman  I 
have  been  speaking  of,"  said  Jack  to  the  policeman,  as 
they  were  moving  along. 

"  Can't  say  I  do,  sir,"  said  the  policeman,  a  highly 
respectable  individual  of  his  class,  clean  as  a  pink,  and 
dull  as  a  pike-staffi 

"  No,  nor  no  one  else  ;"  said  the  landlord.  "Who's 
a  man  as  can't  be  sent  for  ?  He's  neither  here  nor 
there." 

"  That's  true  enough,"  observed  Jack  ;  "  he's  in 
Rome  or  Greece  by  this  time,  at  some  pupil's  house  ; 
but,  wherever  he  is,  I  can't  send  to  him.     With  what 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  141 

face  could  I  do  it,  even  if  possible,  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  fuss  about  a  breakfast  ?" 

"  Fuss  about  white  broth,  you  mean  ?"  said  the  land- 
lord ;  "  my  Friday  spoons  are  prettily  melted  about 
this  time ;  but  Mr.  Kingsley  will  fetch  all  that  out." 

"  Then  he  will  be  an  alchemist,  cunninger  than 
Raymond  Lully,"  said  our  hero.  "  But  what  is  your 
charge,  pra\',  after  all  ?" 

"  False  pretences,  sir,"  said  the  policeman. 

"  False  pretences  !" 

"  Yes,  sir.  You  comes,  you  see,  into  the  gentleman  s 
house  under  the  pretence  of  eating  breakfast,  and  has 
none  ;  and  that's  false  pretences." 

"  That  is,  supposing  I  intended  them  to  be  false." 

"  Yes,  sir.  In  course  1  don't  mean  to  say  as — I  only 
says  what  the  gentleman  says. — Every  man  by  law  is 
held  innocent  till  he's  found  guiltv." 

"  You  are  a  very  civil,  reasonable  mnn,"  said  our 
warm-hearted  hero,  grateful  at  this  unlooked  for  ad- 
admittance  of  something  possible  in  his  i'avor  ;  "  I  re- 
spect you.  I  have  no  money,  nor  even  a  spoon  to  beg 
your  acceptance  of;  but  pray  take  this  book.  It's  ot 
no  use  to  me  ;  I've  another  copy." 

*'  Mayn't  take  anything  in  the  execution  of  my  of- 
fice," said  the  man,  giving  a  glance  at  the  landlord,  as 
if  he  might  have  done  otherwise,  had  he  been  out  of 
the  way  ;  "  ihank'e  all  the  same,  sir  ;  but  ain't  allowed 
to  have  no  targiwai-sation" 

"  Yet  your  duties  are  but  scantily  paid,  I  believe," 
said  Jack.  "  However,  you've  a  capital  breakfast,  no 
doubt,  before  you  set  out?" 

"  Not  by  the  reg'lations,  sir,"  said  the  policeman. 

"  But  you  have  by  seven  or  eight  o'clock  ?"  said 
Jack,  smiling  at  his  .joke. 


142  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

"  Oh,  yes,  tight  enough,  as  to  that,"  answered  the 
policeman,  smiling  ;  for  the  subject  of  eating  rouses 
the  wits  of  everybody. 

"  Hot  toast,  eggs,  and  all  that,  I  suppose,"  said  Jack, 
heaving  a  sigh  betwixt  mirth  and  calamity. 

"  Can't  say  I  take  eggs,"  returned  the  other  ;  "  but 
I  takes  a  bit  o'  cold  meat,  and  a  good  lot  o'  bread  and 
butter."  And  here  he  looked  radiant  with  the  remi- 
niscence. 

"  Lots  of  bread  and  butter,"  thought  Jack  ;  "  what 
bliss  !  I'll  have  bread  and  butter  when  I  breakfast, 
not  toast — it's  more  hearty — and,  besides,  you  get  it 
sooner  :  bread  is  sooner  spread  than  toasted — thick, 
thick — I  hear  the  knife  plastering  the  edge  of  the  crust 
before  it  cuts.  Agony  of  expectation  !  When  shall 
I  breakfast  ?" 

"  The  office  !"  cried  the  landlord,  hurrying  forward ; 
and  in  two  minutes,  our  hero  found  himself  in  a 
crowded  room,  in  which  presided  the  all-knowing  and 
all-settling  Mr.  Kingsley.  This  gentleman,  who  died 
not  long  after  policemen  came  up,  was  the  last  linger- 
ing magistrate  of  the  old  school.  He  was  a  shortish 
stout  man  in  powder,  with  a  huge  vinous  face,  a  hasty 
expression  of  countenance,  Roman  nose,  and  large 
lively  black  eyes  ;  and  he  always  kept  his  hat  on, 
partly  for  the  most  dignified  reason  in  the  world,  be- 
cause he  represented  the  sovereign  magistracy,  and 
partly  for  the  most  undignified ;  to  v/it,  a  cold  in  the 
head ;  for  to  this  visitation  he  had  a  perpetual  ten- 
dency, owing  to  the  wine  he  took  over-night,  and  the 
draughts  of  air  which  beset  him  every  morning  in  the 
police  office.  Irritability  was  his  weak  side,  like  the 
landlord's  ;  but  then,  agreeably  to  the  inconsistency  in 
that  case  n  nde  iind   provided,  he  was  very  intolerant 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  143 

of  the  weakness  in  others.  To  sum  up  his  character, 
he  was  very  loyal  to  his  king  ;  had  a  great  reverence 
for  all  the  by-gone  statesmen  of  his  youth,  especially 
such  as  were  orators  and  lords  ;  indeed,  had  no  little 
tendency  to  suppose  all  rich  men  respectable,  and  to 
let  them  escape  too  easily  if  brought  before  him  ;  but 
was  severe  in  proportion  with  what  are  called  "  de- 
cent" men  and  tradesmen,  and  very  kind  to  the  poor: 
and  if  he  loved  anything  better  than  his  dignity,  it  was 
a  good  bottle  of  port,  and  an  ode  of  Horace.  He  had 
not  the  wit  of  a  Fielding  or  Dubois  ;  but  he  had  a 
spice  of  their  scholarship  ;  and  while  taking  his  wine, 
would  nibble  you  th-e  beginnings  of  half  the  odes  of  his 
favorite  poet,  as  other  men  do  a  cake  or  biscuit. 

To  our  hero's  dismay,  a  considerable  delay  took 
place  before  the  landlord's  charge  could  be  heard. 
Time  flew,  hunger  pressed,  breakfast  drew  farther  off, 
and  the  son  of  the  jovial  prebendary  learned  what  it 
was  to  feel  the  pangs  of  the  want  of  a  penny,  for  he 
could  not  buy  even  a  roll.  "  Immortal  Goldsmith  !" 
thought  he  ;  "  poor  Savage  !  amazing  Chatterton  !  pa- 
thetic Otway!  flne,  old,  lay-bishop  Johnson  !  vener- 
able, surly  man !  is  it  possible  that  you  ever  felt  this ! 
I'elt  it  to-morrow  too  ;  and  next  day  ;  and  next !  Ill 
does  it  become  me  then,  Jack  Abbott,  to  be  impatient ; 
and  yet,  O  table-cloth  !  O  thick  slices  !  O  tea  !  when 
shall  I  breakfast  ?" 

The  case  at  length  was  brought  on,  and  the  testi- 
monv  of  the  absent  witnesses  admitted  bv  our  hero 
with  a  nonchalance  which  disgusted  the  magistrate, 
and  began  to  rouse  his  bile.  What  irritated  him  the 
more  was,  that  lie  saw  there  would  be  no  proving  any- 
thing, unless  the  criminal  (whom  for  the  very  inno- 
cence of  his  looks  he  took  for  an  impudent  offender) 


144  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

should  somehow  or  other  commit  himself;  which  he 
thought  not  very  likely.  In  fact,  as  nothing  had  been 
eaten,  and  nothing  found  on  the  person,  there  was  no 
real  charge  ;  and  Mr.  Kingsley  had  a  very  particular 
secret  reason,  as  we  shall  see  presently,  why  he  could 
not  help  feeling  that  there  was  one  point  strongly  in 
the  defendant's  favor.  But  this  only  served  to  irritate 
him  the  more. 

"  Well  now,  you  sir — Mr.  What'syourname,"  quoth 
he,  in  a  huffing  mannei%  and  staring  from  under  his 
hat ;  "what  is  your  wonderful  explanation  of  this  very 
extraordinary  habit  of  taking  three  breakfasts :  eh, 
sir  ?     You  seem  mighty  cool  upon  it." 

"  Sir,"  answered  our  hero,  whose  good-nature  gifted 
him  with  a  certain  kind  of  address,  "it  is  out  of  no  dis- 
respect to  yourself  that  I  am  cool.  You  may  well  be 
surprised  at  the  circumstances  under  which  I  find  my- 
self; but  in  addressing  a  gentleman  and  a  man  of  un- 
derstanding, and  giving  him  a  plain  statement  of  the 
facts,  I  have  no  doubt  he  will  discover  a  veracity  in  it 
which  escapes  eyes  less  discerning." 

Here  the  landlord,  who  instinctively  saw  the  effect 
which  this  exordium  would  have  upon  Kingsley,  could 
not  help  muttering  the  word  "  palaver,"  loud  enough  to 
be  heard. 

"  Silence  !"  exclaimed  the  magistrate.  "  Keep  your 
vulgar  words  to  yourself,  sir.  And  hark'e,  sir,  take 
your  hat  off,  sir  !  How  dare  you  come  into  this  office 
with  your  hat  on  ?" 

"  Sir,  I  have  a  very  bad  cold,  and  I  thought  that  in 
a  public  office " 

"  Sir,"  returned  Kingsley,  who  was  doubly  offended 
at  this  excuse  about  the  cold,  "  think  us  none  of  youi 
thoughts,  sir.     Public  office  !     Public-house,  I  suppose 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  145 

you  mean.  Nobody  wears  his  hat  in  this  office  but 
myself;  and  I  only  do  it  as  the  representative  of  a 
greater  power.  Hat,  indeed  !  I  suppose  some  day  or 
other  we  shall  all  have  the  privilege  of  my  Lord  Kin- 
sale,  and  wear  our  hats  in  the  royal  presence." 

Jack  gave  his  account  of  the  whole  matter,  which, 
from  a  certain  ignorance  it  exhibited  of  the  ways  of 
the  town,  did  appear  a  little  romantic  to  his  interroga- 
tor;  but  the  latter,  besides  knowing  our  hero's  lawyer, 
was  not  unacquainted  with  the  character  of  Goodall, 
"  who,"  said  he,  "  is  known  to  everybody." 

"  Probably,  sir;"  observed  the  landlord,  "but  for  that 
reason  may  not  this  person  have  heard  of  him,  and  so 
pretend  to  be  his  acquaintance  ?  He  calls  himself  Ab- 
bott, but  that  is  not  the  name  in  tiie  French  book  he's 
got  about  him." 

"  Let  me  see  the  book,"  cried  Kingsley.  "  French 
book !  It  is  a  Latin  book,  and  a  very  good  book  too, 
and  an  Elzevir.  '  E  lihris  Caroli  Gibson,  1743.' — A 
pretty  age  for  the  person  before  us  truly — a  very  hale, 
hearty  young  gentleman,  some  ninety  years  old,  or 
thereabouts.  (Here  a  laugh  all  over  the  office;  which, 
together  with  the  sight  of  the  Horace,  put  Kingsley 
into  the  greatest  good-humor.)  You  are  thinking,  I 
guess,  Mr.— a — Abbott,  of  the  '  Odi  jprofanum  vulgus,' 
I  take  it ;  and  wishing  you  could  add,  'ct  aj'ceo.'"* 

"  Why,  to  tell  the  truth,"  answered  Jack,  "  I  can- 
not deny  a  wish  to  that  effect ;  but  my  main  thought,  for 
these  five  hours  past,  has  been  rather  of  the  '  Niaic  est 
hihendujji'] — only  substituting  teacups  for  goblets." 

•'Very  good,  sir,  very  good;  and  doubtless  you  ad- 

♦  I  hate  the  profane  vulgar, — and  drive  them  away. 
t  Now  for  drinking. 

vol..  I.  7 


146  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

mire  the  ^Persicos  odW  and  the  '  Quid  dedicatum,'  and 
that  beautiful  ode,  the  '  Vides  ut  alta  V  "* 

"  I  do,  indeed,"  said  Jack  ;  "and  I  trust  that  one  of 
your  favorites,  hke  mine,  is  the  '  Integer  vitce  scderis- 
que  purus?^" 

"  '  Non  eget  Mauri  jaculis  Tieque  arcu ' 

(added  Kingsley,  unable  to  avoid  going  on  with  the 
quotation) 

"  '  Nee  ve7ienatis  gravida  sagittis, 
Fwsce,  pharetra.' 

There's  something  very  charming  in  that  '  Fuscr  pha- 
retra'— so  short  and  pithy,  and  elegant ;  and  then  the 
pleasant,  social  familiarity  of  Fusee." 

*'  Just  so,"  said  Jack  ;  "  you  hit  the  true  relish  of  it 
to  a  nicety ." 

^^ Fussy  fair-eater!"  muttered  the  landlord.  "A 
great  deal  more  fuss  ihnn  fair  eating.  My  time's  lost 
— that's  certain." 

Kingsley  could  not  resist  a  few  more  returns  to  his 
favorite  pages;  but  suddenly  recollecting  himself,  he 
looked  grand  and  a  little  turbulent,  and  said — 

"  Well,  Mr. — a — Landlord — What'syourname, — 
what's  the  charge  here,  after  all  ?  for,  on  my  conscience, 
I  cannot  see  any ;  and,  for  my  part,  I  thoroughly  be- 
lieve the  gentleman  ;  and  I'll  give  you  another  reason 
for  it,  besides  knowing  this  Mr.  Goodall.  It  may  not 
be  thought  very  dignified  in  me  to  own  it,  but  dignity 
must  give  way  to  justice — '  Fiat  justitia,  mat  caelum^ 
— and  to  say  the  truth  I,  I  myself,  Mr.  Landlord — 
whatever  you  may  think  of  the  confession — came  from 
home  this  morning  without  remembering  my  purse." 

*  Various  beffinninss  of  other  Odes. 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  147 

In  short,  the  upshot  was,  that  the  worthy  magistrate, 
seeing  Bidd's  impatience  at  this  confession,  and  warm- 
ing the  more  towards  his  Horatian  friend,  not  only- 
proceeded  to  throw  the  greatest  ridicule  on  the  charge, 
but  gave  Jack  a  note  to  the  nearest  tavern-keeper, 
desiring  him  to  famish  the  gentleman  with  a  breakfast 
at  his  expense,  and  stating  the  reason  why.  He  then 
proclaimed  aloud,  as  he  was  directing  it,  what  he  had 
done ;  and  added,  that  he  should  be  very  happy  to  see 
so  intelligent  and  very  innocent  a  young  gentleman, 
whenever  he  chose  to  call  upon  him. 

With  abundance  of  acknowledgments,  and  in  rap- 
tures at  the  now  certain  approach  of  the  bread  and 
butter.  Jack  made  his  way  out  of  the  office,  and  pro- 
ceeded for  the  tavern. 

"  At  last  I  have  thee  !"  cried  he,  internally,  "  O,  most 
fugacious  of  meals — what  a  repast  I  will  make  of  it  ! 
What  a  breakfiist  I  shall  have  ?  Never  will  a  break- 
fast have  been  so  intensified." 

Jack  Abbott,  with  the  note  in  his  hand,  arrived  at 
the  tavern,  went  up  the  steps,  hurried  through  the 
passage  Every  inch  of  the  way  was  full  of  hope  and 
bliss.  He  sees  the  bar  in  an  angle  round  the  corner, 
and  is  hastening  into  it  with  the  magical  document, 
when  lo  !  whom  should  his  eyes  light  on  but  the  plain- 
tiff, Bidds  himself,  detailing  his  version  of  the  storv  to 
the  new  landlord,  and  evidently  poisoning  his  mind 
witii  every  syllable. 

Our  modest,  albeit  not  timid,  hero,  raging  with 
hunger  as  he  was,  could  not  stand  this.  A  man  of 
more  confident  face  might  not  unreasonably  have  pre- 
sented his  note,  and  stood  the  brunt  of  the  uncomfort- 
ableness  ;  but  Jack  Abbott,  with  all  his  apparent 
thoughtlessness,  had  one  of  those  natures  which  feel 


148  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

for  the  improprieties  of  others,  even  when  they  them- 
selves have  no  sense  of  them  ;  and  he  had  not  the  heart 
to  outface  the  vindictiveness  of  Bidds.  To  say  the 
truth,  Bidds,  who  was  a  dull  fellow,  had  some  reason 
to  be  suspicious ;  and  Jack  felt  this  too,  and  retreating 
accordingly,  made  haste  to  take  the  long  step  to  his 
lawyer's. 

"  Now  the  lawyer,"  quoth  he,  soliloquizing,  "  I  have 
never  seen ;  but  he  was  an  intimate  friend  of  my 
father's  ;  so  intimate,  that  I  can  surely  take  a  household 
liberty  with  him,  and  fairly  accept  his  breakfast,  if  he 
offers  it,  as  of  course  he  will ;  and  I  shall  plainly  tell 
him  that  I  prefer  breakfast  to  lunch  ;  in  short,  that  I 
have  made  up  my  mind  to  have  it,  even  if  I  wait  till 
dinner-time,  or  tea'time ;  and  he'll  laugh,  and  we  shall 
be  jolly,  and  so  I  shall  get  my  breakfast  at  last.  Ex- 
quisite moment !     What  a  breakfast  I  shall  have  !"     * 

The  lawyer,  Mr.  Pallinson,  occupied  a  good  large 
house,  with  the  marks  of  plenty  on  it.  Jack  hailed 
the  sight  of  the  fire  blazing  in  the  kitchen.  "  Delicious 
spot  r  thought  he  ;  "  kettle,  pantry,  and  all  that — com- 
fortable maid-servant  too  ;  hope  she  has  milk  left,  and 
will  cut  the  bread  and  butter.  A  home  too — good 
family  house.  Sure  of  being  comfortable  there. 
Taverns  not  exactly  what  I  took  'em  for — not  hospi- 
table— xioi  fiducial— diOn\  trust ;  don't  know  an  honest 
man  when  they  see  him.     What  slices  !" 

But  a  little  baulk  presented  itself.  Jack  unfortu- 
nately rang  at  the  office-heW  instead  of  the  house,  and 
found  himself  among  a  parcel  of  clerks.  Mr.  Pallin- 
son was  out — not  expected  at  home  till  evening — had 
gone  to  Westminster  on  special  business — and  at  such 
limes  always  dined  at  the  Mendip  coffee-house.  Jack, 
in  desperation,  fairly  stated  his  case.     No  result  but 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.        149 

• 

**  Strange,  indeed,  sir,"  from  one  of  the  clerks,  and  a 
general  look-up  from  their  desks  on  the  part  of  the 
others.  Not  a  syllable  of  "  Won't  you  stop,  sir?"  or, 
"  The  servant  can  easily  give  you  breakfast ;"  or  any 
of  those  fond  succedaneums  for  the  master's  presence, 
which  our  hero's  simplicity  had  fancied.  Furthermore, 
no  Mrs.  Pallinson  existed,  to  whom  he  might  have  ap- 
plied :  and  he  had  not  the  face  to  ask  for  any  minor 
goddess  of  the  household.  Blushing,  and  stammering 
a  "  Good-morning,"  he  again  found  himself  in  the  wide 
world  of  pavement  and  houses.  He  had  got,  how- 
ever, his  lawyer's  direction  at  the  coffee-house,  and 
thither  accordingly  he  betook  himself,  retracing  great 
part  of  his  melancholy  steps. 

Had  our  hero,  instead  of  having  passed  his  time  at 
college  and  in  the  country,  been  at  all  used  to  living 
in  London,  he  would  ha^e  set  himself  down  comfort- 
ably at  once  in  this  or  any  other  coffee-house,  ordered 
what  he  pleased,  and  dispatched  a  messenger  in  the 
meanwhile  to  anybody  he  wanted.  But  under  all  the 
circumstances,  he  was  resolved,  for  fear  of  encount- 
ering further  disappointment,  to  endure  whatsoever 
pangs  remained  to  him  for  the  rest  of  the  time,  and 
wait  till  he  saw  his  solicitor  come  in  to  dinner.  In 
vain  the  waiters  gave  him  all  encouragement — "  Knew 
Mr.  Pallinson  well" — "A  most  excellent  gentleman" 
— had  "  recommended  many  gentlemen  to  their  house." 
— "  Would  you  like  anything,  sir,  before  he  comes  ?" — 
"Like  to  look  at  the  paper?"  and  the  paper  was  laid, 
huge  and  crisp,  before  him. 

"  Ah !"  thought  Jack  with  a  sigh,  "  I  know  that 
sound — no,  I'll  certainly  wait.  Five  o'clock  isn't  far 
off,  and  then  I'm  certain.     What  a  breakfast  I  shall 


150  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

now  have,  when  it  does  come.     I'll  wait,  if  I  die  first, 
so  as  to  have  it  in  perfect  comfort." 

At  length  five  o'clock  strikes,  and  almost  at  the  same 
moment  enters  Mr.  Pallinson.  He  was  a  brisk,  good- 
humored  man,  who  had  the  happy  art  of  throwing  off 
business  with  the  occasion  for  it ;  and  he  acknowledged 
our  hero's  claims  at  once,  in  a  jovial  voice,  "  from  his 
likeness  to  his  excellent  friend,  the  prebendary." 

"  Don't  say  a  word  more,  my  dear  sir — not  a  word  ; 
your  eyes  and  face  tell  all.  Here,  John,  plates  for 
two.  You'll  dine  of  course  with  your  father's  old 
friend  ?  or  would  you  like  a  private  room  ?" 

Jack's  heart  felt  itself  at  home  at  once  with  this  cor- 
diality. He  said  he  was  very  thankful  for  the  offer  of 
the  private  room,  especially  for  a  reason  which  he 
would  explain  presently.  Having  entered  it,  he  opened 
into  the  history  of  his  morning  ;  and  by  laughing  him- 
self, warranted  Pallinson  in  the  bursts  of  laughter 
which  he  would  have  had  the  greatest  difficulty  to  re- 
strain. But  the  good  and  merry  lawyer,  who  under- 
stood both  a  joke  and  a  comfort  to  the  depth,  entered 
heartily  into  Jack's  whim  of  still  having  his  breakfast, 
and  it  was  accordingly  brought  up — not,  however, 
without  a  guarded  explanation  on  the  part  of  the  West- 
minster-hall man,  who  had  a  professional  dislike  to 
seeing  anybody  committed  in  the  eyes  of  the  ignorant ; 
so  he  told  the  waiter,  that  "  his  friend  here  had  got  up 
so  late,  and  kept  such  fashionable  hours,  he  must  needs 
breakfast  while  himself  was  dining."  The  waiter 
bowed  with  great  respect ;  "  and  so,"  says  the  shrewd 
attorney,  "  no  harm's  done  ;  and  now,  my  dear  Mr.  Ab- 
bott, peg  away." 

Jack  needed  not  this  injunction  to  lay  his  hand  upon 
the  prey.     The  bread  and  butter  was  now  actually  be- 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  151 

fore  him ;  not  so  thick,  indeed,  as  he  had  pictured  to 
himself;  but  there  it  was,  real,  right-earnest  bread  and 
butter  ;  and  since  the  waiter  had  turned  liis  back,  three 
sUces  could  be  rolled  into  one,  and  half  of  the  coy  ag- 
gregation clapped  into  the  mouth  at  once.  The  lump 
was  accordingly  made,  the  fingers  whisked  it  up,  and 
the  mouth  was  ready  opened  to  swallow,  when  the 
waiter  again  throws  open  the  door — 

"  Mr.  Goodall,  sir."         ^ 

"  Breakfast  is  abolished  with  me,"  thought  Jack. 
"  there's  no  such  thing.  Henceforward  I  shall  not  at- 
tempt it." 

The  prebendary,  the  lawyer,  and  Goodall  were  all 
well  known  to  each  other ;  but  this  is  not  what  had 
brought  him  hither.  The  waiter  at  his  coffee-house, 
where  he  went  to  read  the  papers,  and  where  Jack 
had  had  his  first  mischance,  had  returned  home  before 
the  old  gentleman  had  finished  his  morning's  journal, 
and  told  him  what,  to  his  dusty  apprehension,  appeared 
the  mosti  confused  and  unaccountable  story  in  the 
world,  of  Mr.  Abbott  having  ordered  three  breakfasts 
and  been  taken  to  jail.  In  his  benevolent  uneasiness, 
he  could  hardly  get  through  his  day's  work,  which  un- 
fortunately called  him  so  far  as  Hackney ;  but  as  soon 
as  it  was  over,  he  hastened  in  a  coach  to  Pallinson's, 
and  coming  there  just  after  Jack  had  gone,  had  fol- 
lowed him,  in  less  uneasiness  of  mind,  to  the  tavern. 

"  Well,  sir — eh,  sir  ? — why,  my  dear  Mr.  Abbott — 
John — James  I  should  say — why,  what  a  dance  you 
have  led  me  to  find  you  out !  and  very  glad  I  am,  I'm 
sure,  sir,  to  find  you  so  comfortably  situated  with  our 
good  IViend  here,  after  the  story  which  that  foolish, 
half-witted  fellow,  William,  told  me  at  the  coffee-house. 
Well,  sir — eh — and   now — I    beg   pardon — but   pray 


152  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

what  is  it,  and  can  I  do  anything  for  you  ?  I  suppose 
not — eh — ah?  for  here's  our  excellent  friend  Mr.  Pal- 
linson — he  does  everything  of  that  sort — bailiff  and 
house — yes,  sir,  and  no  doubt  it's  all  right — only,  if  I 
am  wanted,  you  '11  say  so,  sir — eh — ah — well — but 
don't  let  me  interrupt  your  tea,  I  beg." 

"  Luckiest  of  innocent  fancies  !"  thought  our  hero, 
relieved  from  a  load  of  misgiving.  "  He  thinks  I'm  at 
tea  /"  «. 

Jack  plunged  again  at  the  bread  and  butter,  arid  at 
last  actually  realized  it  in  his  mouth.  His  calamities 
were  over  !     He  was  in  the  act  of  breakfasting  ! 

"  I'm  afraid,  too,"  said  Goodall, — "  eh,  my  dear  sir  ? 
— that  the  very  sparing  breakfast  you  took  at  my  cham- 
bers— eh — ah — my,  my  dear  Mr.  John — must  have 
contributed  not  a  little  to — to — yes,  sir.  Well,  but 
pray  now  what  was  the  trouble  you  had,  of  which  that 
foolish  fellow  told  me  such  flams  ?  I'm  afraid — yes, 
indeed — I've  had  great  fears  sometimes  that  he  ven- 
tures to  tell  me  stoi-ies — things  untrue,  sir."  ^ 

"  God  bless  him  and  you,  both  of  you,"  thought  Ab- 
bott. "  You're  a  delicious  fellow. — Why,  my  dear, 
good  sir,"  continued  he,  always  eating,  and  at  the  same 
time  racking  his  brains  for  an  invention, — "  I  beg  your 
pardon — I'm  eating  a  little  too  fast " 

Here  he  made  signs  of  uneasiness  in  the  throat. 

"  The  fact  is,"  said  Pallinson,  coming  to  the  rescue, 
(for  he  knew  that  the  whole  business  would  fade  from 
Goodall's  mind  next  day,  or  be  remembered  so  dimly 
that  the  waiter  would  hear  no  more  of  it),  "  the  fact  is, 
Mr.  Abbott  met  7ne  in  Temple  Lane,  where  I  had  been 
summoned  on  business  so  early,  that  I  had  not  break- 
fasted ;  and  he  said  he  would  order  breakfast  for  me  at 


JACK  Abbott's  breakfast.  153 

your  coffee-house  ;  and  I  not  coming,  he  came  out  to 
look  for  me,  and  found  me  discussing  a  matter  at  an- 
other tavern-door,  with  a  policeman,  who  had  been 
sent  for  to  take  up  a  swindler ;  and  hence,  my  good 
sir,  all  this  stuff  about  the  jail  and  the  two  breakfasts, 
for  there  were  only  two ;  but  you  know  how  stories 
accumulate." 

"  Very  deplorably,  indeed,  sir,"  said  Goodall ;  "  it 
always  was  so,  and — eh — ah — yes,  sir — I  fear  always 
will  be." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  interrupted  Jack;  "but  may  I 
trouble  you  for  that  loaf?  These  slices  are  very  thin, 
and  I'm  so  ravenously  hungry,  that " 

"  Glorious  moment !"  The  inward  ejaculation  was 
at  last  a  true  one.  The  sturdy  slices  beautifully  made 
their  appearance  from  under  the  sharp,  robust-going, 
and  butter- plastering  knife  of  Jack  Abbott.  Even  the 
hot  toast  was  called  for — Goodall  having  "  vowed'' 
he'd  take  his  tea  also,  since  they  were  all  three  met. 
The  eggs  were  also  contrived,  and  plump  went  the 
spoon  upon  their  tops  in  the  egg-cup.  The  huge  ham 
furthermore  was  not  wanting.  And  then  the  well-filled 
and  thrice-filled  breakfast-cup ; — excellent  was  its 
strong  and  well-milked  tea,  between  black  and  green, 
"  with  an  eye  of  tawny  in  it  ;"  something  with  a  body, 
although  most  liquidly  refreshing.  Jack  doubled  his 
thick  slices ;  he  took  huge  bites ;  he  swilled  his  tea,  as 
he  had  sworn  in  thought  he  would  ;  and  he  had  the 
eggs  on  one  side  of  him,  and  the  ham  on  the  other,  and 
his  friends  before  him,  and  was  as  happy  as  a  prince 
escaped  into  a  foreign  land  (for  no  prince  in  possession 
knows  such  moments  as  these) ;  and  when  he  had  at 
length  finished,  talking  and  laughing  all  the  while,  or 


154  JACK  Abbott's  breakfast. 

hearing  talk  and  laugh,  he  pushed  the  breakfast-cup 
aside,  and  said  to  himself, 

"  I've  had  it  ! — breakfast  hath  been  mine  ! — And 
now,  my  dear  Mr.  Pallinson,  I'll  take  a  glass  of  your 
port." 


ON   SEEING   A   PIGEON   MAKE   LOVE. 


Ut  albulus  Columbus,  aut  Adoneus  1 

Catullus. 

Which  is  he  1  Pireon,  or  Adonis  1 


French  inkrmixture  of  prose  and  verse. — Courtship  of  Pigeons. — A  word 
in  pity  for  rakes. — Story  of  one  baffled. — Instinctive  sameness  of  t/ie 
conduct  of  the  lower  anitnaJs  questioned. — Popc^s  opinion  respecting  in- 
stinct and  reason. — Human  ImprovabUity. — Fitness  of  some  of  the  lower 
animals  for  goiiig  to  heaven  not  less  conceivaile  than  thai,  of  some  others. 
— Doves  at  Maiano. — Ovid's  Bird-Elysium. 

The  French  liave  a  lazy  way,  in  some  of  their  com- 
positions, .of  writing  prose  and  verse  alternately.  The 
author,  whenever  it  is  convenient  for  him  to  be  in- 
spired, begins  dancing  away  in  rhyme.  The  fit  over, 
he  goes  on  as  before,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  We 
have  essays  in  prose  and  verse  by  Cowley  (a  delight- 
ful book)  in  which  the  same  piece  contains  both  ;  but 
with  one  exception,  they  are  rather  poems  with  long 
prefaces. 

If  ever  this  practice  is  allowable,  it  is  to  a  periodical 
writer  in  love  with  poetry.  He  is  obliged  to  write 
prose  ;  he  is  tormented  with  the  desire  of  venting  him- 
self in  rhyme  ;  he  rhymes,  and  has  not  leisure  to  go  on. 
Behold  us,  as  a  Frenchman  would  say,  with  our  rhyme 
and  our  reason  ! 


156        ON  SEEING  A  PIGEON  MAKE  LOVE. 

The  following  verses  were  suggested  by  a  sight  of 
a  pigeon  making  love.  The  scene  took  place  in  a  large 
sitting-i-oom,  where  a  beau  might  have  followed  a  lady 
up  and  down  with  as  bustling  a  solicitation :  he  could 
not  have  done  it  with  more.  The  birds  had  been 
brought  there  for  sale ;  but  they  knew  no  more  of  this 
than  two  lovers  whom  destiny  has  designs  upon.  The 
gentleman  was  as  much  at  his  ease  as  if  he  had  been  a 
Bond-street  lounger  pursuing  his  fair  in  a  solitary  street. 
We  must  add,  as  an  excuse  for  the  abruptness  of  the 
exordium,  that  the  house  belonged  to  a  poet  of  our  ac- 
quaintance, who  was  in  the  room  at  the  same  time.* 

Is  not  the  picture  strangely  like "? 
Doesn't  the  very  bowing  strike  1 
Can  any  art  of  love  in  fashion 
Express  a  more  prevaiUng  passion  1 
That  air — that  sticking  to  her  side — 
That  deference,  ill  concealing  pride, — 
That  seeming  consciousness  of  coat, 
And  repetition  of  one  note, — 
Ducking  and  tossing  back  his  head, 
As  if  at  every  bov?  he  said, 
"  Madam,  by  Heaven," — or  "  Strike  me  dead." 

And  then  the  lady  !  look  at  her : 
Vv'hat  bridling  sense  of  character ! 
How  she  dechnes,  and  seems  to  go. 
Yet  still  endures  him  to  and  fro ; 
Carrying  her  plumes  and  pretty  clothings, 
Blushing  stare,  and  mutter'd  nothings, 
Body  plump,  and  airy  feet, 
Like  any  charmer  in  a  street. 

Give  him  a  hat  beneath  his  wing. 
And  is  not  he  the  very  thing  1 
Give  her  a  parasol  or  plaything, 
And  is  not  she  the  very  she-thing  1 

*  Lord  Byron.     The  house  was  the  Casa  Saluzzi,  at  Albaro  near 
Genoa. 


ON  SEEING  A  PIGEON  MAKE  LOVE.        157 

Oui  companion,  who  had  run  the  round  of  the  great 
world,  seemed  to  be  rather  mortified  than  otherwise 
at  this  spectacle.  It  was  certainly  calculated,  at  first 
blush,  to  damp  the  pride  of  the  circles ;  but  upon  re- 
flection, it  seemed  to  afford  a  considerable  lift  to  beaux 
and  belles  in  ordinary.  It  seemed  to  show  how  much 
of  instinct,  and  of  the  common  unreflecting  course  of 
things,  there  is  even  in  the  gallantries  of  those  who 
flatter  themselves  that  they  are  vicious.  Nobody  ex- 
pects wisdom  in  these  persons ;  and  if  they  can  be 
found  to  be  less  guilty  than  is  supposed,  the  gain  is 
much :  for,  as  to  letting  the  dignity  of  human  nature 
depend  upon  theirs,  on  the  one  hand,  or  expecting  to 
bring  about  any  change  in  their  conduct  by  lecturing 
them  on  their  faults,  on  the  other,  it  is  a  speculation 
equally  hopeless. 

If  a  man  of  pleasure  "  about  town"  is  swayed  by  any- 
thing, it  is  by  a  fear  of  becoming  ridiculous.  If  he 
must  continue  in  his  old  courses,  it  is  pleasant  to  know 
him  for  what  he  is,  and  that  pigeons  are  not  confined 
to  the  gaming-table. 

We  followed  once  a  young  man  of  fashion  in  and 
out  a  variety  of  streets  at  the  west  end  of  the  town, 
through  which  he  was  haunting  a  poor  blushing  dam- 
sel, who  appeared  to  be  at  once  distressed  by  him  and 
endangered.  We  thought  she  seemed  to  be  wishing 
for  somethinc:  to  turn  the  scale  in  favor  of  her  self- 
denial ;  and  we  resolved  to  furnish  it.  Could  the  con- 
sequences of  his  success  have  rested  entirely  with  him- 
self, we  saw  enough  of  the  pigeon  in  him  not  to  have 
been  so  ill-bred  as  to  "  spoil  sport ;"  but  considering, 
as  times  go,  that  what  is  sport  to  the  gentleman  in 
these  cases  is  very  often  death  to  the  lad)%  we  found 
ourselves  compelled  to  be  rude  and  conscientious.     In 


158  ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE. 

vain  he  looked  round  every  now  and  then,  putting  on 
his  best  astonishment,  and  cursing,  no  doubt,  "  the  in- 
delicacy of  the  fellow."  There  we  were,  low  and  in- 
solent,— sticking  to  his  skirts,  wondering  whether  he 
would  think  us  of  importance  enough  for  a  challenge, 
and  by  what  bon-mot  or  other  ingenious  baffling  of  his 
resentment,  we  should  contrive  at  once  to  save  our  life 
and  the  lady.  At  length,  he  turns  abruptly  across  the 
street,  and  we  followed  the  poor  girl,  till  she  was  at  a 
safe  distance.  We  caught  but  one  other  glimpse  of  her 
face,  which  was  as  red  as  scarlet.  We  fancied,  when 
all  was  safe,  that  some  anger  against  her  deliverer 
might  mingle  with  her  blushes,  and  were  obliged  to 
encourage  ourselves  against  a  sort  of  shame  for  our 
interference.  We  wished  we  could  have  spoken  to 
her ;  but  this  was  impossible  ;  nay,  considering  the 
mutual  tenderness  of  our  virtue  at  that  instant,  might 
have  been  dangerous.  So  we  made  our  retreat  in  the 
same  manner  as  our  gentleman  ;  and  have  thought  of 
her  face  with  kindness  ever  since. 

To  return  to  our  pigeons  : — the  description  given  in 
the  verses  is  true  to  the  letter.  The  reader  must  not 
think  it  a  poetical  exaggeration.  If  he  has  ever  wit- 
nessed an  exhibition  of  the  kind,  he  has  no  conception 
of  the  high  human  hand  with  which  these  pigeons  carry 
it.  The  poets,  indeed,  time  out  of  mind,  have  taken 
amatory  illustrations  from  them ;  but  the  literal  court- 
ship surpasses  them  all.  One  sight  of  a  pigeon  paying 
his  addresses  would  be  sufficient  to  unsettle  in  our 
minds  all  those  proud  conclusions  which  we  draw  re- 
specting the  difference  between  reason  and  instinct. 
If  this  is  mere  instinct  as  distinguished  from  reason,  it 
a  bird  follows  another  bird  up  and  down  by  a  simple 
mechanical   impulse,  giving  himself  all   the  airs  and 


ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE.  150 

graces  imaginable,  exciting  as  many  in  his  mistress, 
and  uttering  every  moment  articulate  sounds  which 
we  are  no  more  bound  to  suppose  deficient  in  meaning 
than  a  pigeon  would  be  warranted  in  supposing  the 
same  of  our  own  speech,  then  reason  itself  may  be  no 
more  than  a  mechanical  impulse.  It  has  nothing  bet- 
ter to  show  for  it.  Our  mechanism  may  possess  a 
greater  variety  of  movements,  and  be  more  adapted  to 
a  variety  of  circumstances  ;  but  if  there  is  not  variety 
here,  and  an  adaptation  to  circumstances,  we  know  not 
where  there  is.  If  it  be  answered,  that  pigeons  would 
never  make  love  in  any  other  manner,  under  any  cir- 
cumstances, we  do  not  know  that.**  Have  people  ob- 
served them  sufficiently  to  know  that  they  always 
make  love  equally  well  ?  If  they  have  varied  at  any 
time,  they  may  vary  again.  Our  own  modes  of  court- 
ship are  undoubtedly  very  numerous ;  and  some  of 
them  are  as  different  from  others,  as  the  courtship  of 
the  pigeon  itsel&from  that  of  the  hog.  But  though  we 
are  observers  of  ourselves,  have  we  yet  observed  other 
animals  sufficiently  to  pronounce  upon  the  limits  of 
their  capacity  ?  We  are  apt  to  suppose  that  all  sheep 
and  oxen  resemble  one  another  in  the  face.  The 
slightest  observation  convinces  us  that  their  counte- 
nances are  as  various  as  those  of  men.  How  are  we 
to  know  that  the  shades  and  modifications  of  their 
character  and  conduct  are  not  as  various  ?  A  well- 
drilled  nation  would  hardly  look  more  various  in  the 
eyes  of  a  bee,  than  a  swarm  of  bees  does  in  our  own. 
The  minuter  differences  in  our  conduct  would  escape 
them  for  want  of  the  habit  of  observing  us,  and  be- 
cause their  own  are  of  another  sort.  How  are  we  to 
say  that  we  do  not  judge  them  as  ill  ?  Every  fresh 
speculation  into  the  iiabitsand  manners  of  that  singular 


160  ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE. 

little  people,  produces  new  and  extraordinary  discov- 
eries. The  bees  in  Buffon's  time  were  in  the  habit, 
when  they  built  their  hives,  of  providing  for  a  certain 
departure  from  the  more  obvious  rules  of  architecture, 
which  at  a  particular  part  of  the  construction  became 
necessary.  BufTon  ingeniously  argued,  that  because 
they  always  practised  this  secret  geometry,  and  never 
did  otherwise,  their  apparent  departure  itself  was  but 
another  piece  of  instinct ;  and  he  concluded  that  they 
always  had  done  so,  and  always  would.  Possibly  they 
will ;  but  the  conclusion  is  not  made  out  by  his  argu- 
ment. A  being  who  knows  how  to  build  better  than 
we  do,  might  as  Well  assert,  that  because  we  have  not 
arrived  at  certain  parts  of  his  knowledge,  we  never 
shall.  Observe  the  vast  time  which  it  takes  us,  with 
all  our  boasted  reason,  to  attain  to  improvements  in  our 
own  arts  and  sciences  :  think  how  little  we  know  after 
all ;  what  little  certainty  we  have  respecting  periods 
which  are  but  as  yesterday,  compared  with  the  mighty 
lapse  of  time ;  and  judge  how  much  right  we  have  to 
say,  This  we  never  did — This  we  shall  never  be  able 
to  do. 

We  have  read  of  some  beavers,  that  when  they  were 
put  into  a  situation  very  different  from  their  ordinary 
one,  and  incited  to  build  a  house,  they  set  about  their 
work  in  a  style  as  ingeniously  adapted  as  possible  to 
their  new  circumstances.  Buffon  might  say,  they 
had  been  in  this  situation  before  ;  he  might  also  argue 
that  th'ey  were  provided  with  an  instinct  against  the 
emergency.  One  argument  appears  to  me  as  good  as 
the  other.  But  under  the  circumstances,  he  might 
tell  us,  that  they  would  probably  act  with  stupidity. 
And  what  is  done  by  many  human  beings  ?  Is  our 
reason  as  cood  for  us  all  on  one  occasion  as  another  ? 


ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE.  lOl 

The  individuals  of  the  same  race  of  animals  are  not 
all  equally  clever,  any  more  than  ourselves.  The 
more  they  come  under  our  inspection  (as  in  the  case 
of  dogs),  the  more  varieties  we  discern  in  their  char- 
acters and  understandings.  The  most  philosophical 
thing  hitherto  said  on  this  subject  appears  to  be  that 
of  Pope. 

"  I  shall  be  very  glad,"  said  Spence,  "  to  see  Dr. 
Hales,  and  always  love  to  see  him,  he  is  so  worthy 
and  good  a  man."  Pope.  "  Yes,  he  is  a  very  good 
man;  only  I'm  sorry  he  has  his  hands  so  much  im- 
brued in  blood."  Spence.  "  What  !  he  cuts  up  rats  ?" 
Pope.  "  Ay,  and  dogs  too  !  (With  what  emphasis 
and  concern,  says  the  relater,  he  spoke  it.)  Indeed, 
he  commits  most  of  these  barbarities  with  the  thought 
of  being  of  use  to  man  ;  but  how  do  we  know  that  we 
have  a  riirht  to  kill  creatures  that  we  are  so  little  above 
as  dogs,  for  our  curiosity,  or  even  for  some  use  to  us?" 
vSpence.  ''  I  used  to  carry  it  too  far :  I  thought  they 
had  reason  as  well  as  we."  Pope.  "  So  they  have,  to 
be  sure.  All  our  disputes  about  that  are  only  disputes 
about  words.  Man  has  reason  enough  only  to  know 
what  is  necessary  for  him  to  know,  and  dogs  have  just 
that  too."  Spence.  "  But  then  they  have  souls  too,  as 
imperishable  in  their  nature  as  ours  ?"  Pope.  "  And 
what  harm  would  that  be  to  us  ?" 

All  this  passage  is  admirable,  and  helps  to  make  us 
love,  as  we  oui]fht  to  do,  a  man  who  has  contributed 
so  much  to  the  entertainment  of  the  world. 

That  dogs,  like  men,  have  "  reason  enough  only  to 
know  what  is  necessary  for  them  to  know,"  is,  of 
course,  no  argument  against  their  acting  in  a  new 
manner  under  novel  circumstances.  It  is  the  same 
with  us.    Necessities  alter  with  circumstances.    There 


162        ON  SEEING  A  PIGEON  MAKE  LOVE. 

is  a  well-authenticated  story  of  a  dog,  who,  having 
been  ill-treated  by  a  larger  one,  went  and  brought  a 
still  larger  dog  to  avenge  his  cause,  and  see  justice 
done  him.  When  does  a  human  necessity  reason  bet- 
ter than  this  ?  The  greatest  distinction  between  men 
and  other  animals  appears  to  consist  in  this,  that  the 
former  make  a  point  of  cultivating  their  reason  ;  and 
yet  it  is  impossible  to  say  that  nothing  of  the  kind  has 
ever  been  done  by  the  latter.  Birds  and  beasts  in 
general  do  not  take  the  trouble  of  going  out  of  their 
ordinary  course ;  but  is  the  ambition  of  the  common 
run  of  human  beings  any  greater?  Have  not  peasants 
and  mechanics,  and  even  those  who  flourish  and  grow 
learned  under  establishments,  an  equal  tendency  to 
deprecate  the  necessity  of  innovation  ?  A  farmer 
would  go  on  with  his  old  plough,  a  weaver  with  his 
old  loom,  and  a  placeman  with  his  old  opinions,  to  all 
eternity,  if  it  were  not  for  the  restlessness  of  indi- 
viduals ;  and  these  are  forced  to  battle  their  way 
against  a  thousand  prejudices,  even  to  do  the  greatest 
good.  An  established  critic  has  not  always  a  right  to 
triumph  over  the  learned  pig. 

We  have  been  told  by  some,  that  the  "  swinish  mul- 
titude" are  better  without  books.  Now  the  utmost 
which  the  holders  of  this  opinion  can  say  for  the  su- 
perior reason  of  their  species,  is,  that  pigs  dispense 
already  with  a  knowledge  which  is  unfit  for  man.  They 
tell  us,  nevertheless  (and  we  receive  the  text  with  rev- 
erence), that  a  day  shall  come  when  "  the  lion  will  lie 
down  with  the  lamb ;"  and  yet  they  will  laugh  in  your 
face,  if  you  suspect  that  beasts  may  be  improvable 
creatures,  or  even  that  men  may  deserve  to  be  made 
wiser.  But  they  will  say,  that  this  great  event  is  not 
to  be  brought  about  by  knowledge.     Some  of  their 


ON  SEEING  A  PIGEON  MAKE  LOVE.        1G3 

texts  say  otherwise.  We  believe,  that  all  which  they 
know  of  the  matter  is,  that  it  will  not  be  brought  about 
by  themselves. 

But  we  must  not  be  led  away  from  the  dignity  of 
our  subject  by  the  natural  tendencies  of  these  gentle- 
men. Human  means  are  divine  means,  if  the  end  be 
divine.  Without  controverting  the  spirit  of  the  text 
in  question,  it  would  be  difficult,  from  what  we  see 
already  of  the  power  of  different  animals  to  associate 
kindly  with  each  other,  (such  as  lions  with  dogs,  cats 
with  birds  in  the  same  cages,  &c.)  to  pronounce  upon 
the  limits  of  improvability  in  the  brute  creation,  as  far 
as  their  organs  will  allow.  We  would  not  venture  to 
assert  that,  in  the  course  of  ages,  and  by  the  improved 
action  of  those  causes  which  give  rise  to  their  present 
state  of  being,  the  organs  themselves  will  not  undergo 
alteration.  There  is  a  part  in  the  pectoral  conforma- 
tion of  the  male  human  being  which  is  a  great  puzzle 
to  the  anatomists,  and  reminds  us  of  one  of  Plato's 
reveries  on  the  original  state  of  mankind.  When  the 
Divine  Spirit  acts,  it  may  act  through  the  medium  of 
human  knowledge  and  will,  as  well  as  any  other, — 
as  well  as  through  the  trunk  of  a  tree  in  the  pushing 
out  of  a  blossom.  New  productions  are  supposed  to 
take  place  from  time  to  time  in  the  rest  of  the  creation : 
old  ones  are  known  to  have  become  extinct. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  we  are  not  to  conclude  that  the 
world  always  was  and  always  will  be  such  as  it  is, 
simply  because  the  little  space  of  time,  during  which 
we  know  of  its  existence,  offers  to  us  no  extraordinary 
novelty.  The  humility  of  a  philosopher's  ignorance 
(and  there  is  more  humility  in  his  very  pride,  than 
in  the  "  prostration  of  intellect"  so  earnestly  recom- 
mended by  some  persons)  is  sufficient  to  guard  him 


164  ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE. 

against  this   conclusion,  setting  aside   Plato   and  the 
mammoth. 

With  respect  to  other  animals  going  to  heaven,  our 
pride  smiles  in  a  sovereign  manner  at  this  speculation. 
We  have  no  objection,  somehow,  to  a  mean  origin; 
but  we  insist  that  nothing  less  dignified  than  ourselves 
can  be  immortal.  We  are  sorry  we  cannot  settle  the 
question.  We  confess  (if  the  reader  will  allow  us  to 
suppose  that  we  shall  go  to  heaven,  which  does  not 
require  much  modesty,  considering  all  those  who  ap- 
pear to  be  certain  of  doing  so)  we  would  fain  have  as 
much  company  as  possible  ;  and  he  was  of  no  different 
opinion  who  told  us  that  a  time  should  come  when  the 
sucking  child  should  play  with  the  asp.  We  see,  that 
the  poet  had  no  more  objection  to  his  dog's  company 
in  a  state  of  bliss,  than  the  "  poor  Indian,"  of  whom  he 
speaks  in  his  Essay.*  We  think  we  could  name  other 
celebrated  authors,  who  would  as  lief  take  their  dosrs 
into  the  next  world  as  a  king  or  a  bishop,  and  yet  they 
have  no  objection  to  either.  We  may  conceive  much 
less  pleasant  additions  to  our  society  than  a  flock  of 
doves,  which,  indeed,  have   a  certain  fitness   for  an 

*  "  Lo!  the  poor  Indian  whose  untutor'd  mind 
Sees  God  in  clouds,  or  hears  him  in  the  wind : 
His  soul  proud  science  never  taught  to  stray 
Far  as  the  solar  walk,  or  milky  way  ; 

Yet  simple  nature  to  his  hope  has  given, 
Behind  the  cloud-topt  hill,  an  humbler  heaven  ; 
Some  safer  world  in  depth  of  woods  embraced. 
Some  happier  island  in  the  watery  waste, 

•  Where  slaves  once  more  their  native  land  behold, 
No  fiends  torment,  no  Christians  thirst  for  gold. 
To  be,  contents  his  natural  desire, — 

He  asks  no  angel's  wings,  no  seraph's  fire ; 
But  thinks,  admitted  to  that  equal  sky. 
His  faithful  dog  shall  bear  him  company." 


ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE.  165 

Elysian  state.  We  would  confine  our  argument  to 
one  simple  question,  which  the  candid  reader  will  allow 
us  to  ask  him :  "  Does  not  Tomkins  go  to  heaven  ?" 
Has  not  the  veriest  bumpkin  of  a  squire,  that  rides 
after  the  hounds,  an  immortal  soul  ?  If  so,  why  not 
the  whole  pack  1  It  may  be  said,  that  the  pack  are 
too  brutal  and  blood-thirsty:  they  would  require  a  great 
deal  of  improvement.  Well,  let  them  have  it,  and  the 
squire  along  with  them.  It  has  been  thought  by  some, 
that  the  brutal,  or  those  who  are  unfit  for  heaven,  will 
be  annihilated.  Others  conceive  that  they  will  be  bet- 
tered in  other  shapes.  Whatever  be  the  case,  it  is  dif- 
ficult to  think  that  many  beasts  and  birds  are  not  as 
fit  to  go  to  heaven  at  once  as  many  human  beings, — 
people,  who  talk  of  their  seats  there  with  as  much  con- 
fidence as  if  they  had  booked  their  names  for  them  at 
a  box-ofiice.  To  our  humble  taste,  the  goodness  and 
kindness  in  the  countenance  of  a  faithful  dog  are  things 
that  appear  almost  as  fit  for  heaven  as  serenity  in  a 
human  being.  The  prophets  of  old,  in  their  visions, 
saw  nothing  to  hinder  them  from  joining  the  faces  of 
other  animals  with  those  of  men.  The  spirit  that 
moved  the  animal  was  everything. 

It  was  the  opinion  of  a  late  writer,  that  the  immor- 
tality of  the  soul  depended  on  the  cultivation  of  the 
intellect;  He  could  not  conceive  how  the  sots  and 
fools  that  abound  on  tliis  earth  could  have  any  preten- 
sions to  eternity  ;  or  with  what  feelings  they  were  to 
enter  upon  their  new  condition.  There  appears  to  be 
too  much  of  the  pride  of  intellect  in  this  opinion,  and 
too  little  allowance  for  circumstances ;  and  yet,  it  the 
dispensation  that  is  to  take  us  to  heaven  is  of  the  ex- 
clusive kind  that  some  would  make  it,  this  is  surely  the 
mf>re  noble  dogma.    The  other  makes  it  depend  on  the 


166  ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE. 

mere  will  of  the  Divinity,  or  (to  speak  plainly)  upon  a 
system  of  favoritism,  that  would  render  a  human  tyr- 
anny unbearable.  We  are  not  here  speaking  of  the 
mild  tenets  inculcated  by  the  spirit  of  the  Church  of 
England,  but  of  those  of  certain  sects.  In  neither  case 
would  the  majority  of  us  have  much  better  pretensions 
to  go  to  heaven  than  the  multitude  of  other  animals ; 
nor,  perhaps,  a  jot  more,  if  we  knew  all  their  thoughts 
and  feelings.  But  we  shall  stray  from  our  subject,  and 
grow  more  positive  than  becomes  a  waking  dream. 

To  conclude  with  the  pleasant  animals  with  whom 
we  commenced,  there  is  a  flock  of  pigeons  in  the 
neighborhood  where  we  are  writing,*  whom  we  might 
suppose  to  be  enjoying  a  sort  of  heaven  on  earth. 
The  place  is  fit  to  be  their  paradise.  There  is  plenty 
of  food  for  them,  the  dove-cots  are  excellent,  the  scene 
full  of  vines  in  summer-time,  and  of  olives  all  the  year 
round.  It  happens,  in  short,  to  be  the  very  spot  where 
Boccaccio  is  said  to  have  laid  the  scene  of  his  Deca- 
meron. He  lived  there  himself  Fiesole  is  on  the 
height ;  the  Valley  of  Ladies  in  the  hollow ;  the  brooks 
are  all  poetical  and  celebrated.  As  we  behold  this 
flock  of  doves  careering  about  the  hamlet,  and  whiten- 
ing in  and  out  of  the  green  trees,  we  cannot  help  fan- 
cying that  they  are  the  souls  of  the  gentle  company 
in  the  Decameron,  come  to  enjoy  in  peace  their  old 
neighborhood.  We  think,  as  we  look  at  them,  that 
they  are  now  as  free  from  intrusion  and  scandal  as 
they  are  innocent ;  and  that  no  falcon  will  touch  them, 
for  the  sake  of  the  story  they  told  of  him.f 

*  At  Maiano,  near  Florence. 

•(•  The  well-known  and  beautiful  story  of  the  Decameron.  Mr.  Proc- 
ter has  touched  it  in  a  high  and  worthy  strain  of  enthusiasm  in  his 
"  Dramatic  Sketcties." 


ON    SEEING    A    PIGEON    MAKE    LOVE.  16? 

Ovid,  in  one  of  his  elegies,*  tells  us,  that  birds  have 
a  Paradise  near  Elysium.  Doves,  be  sure,  are  not 
omitted.  But  peacocks  and  parrots  go  there  also. 
The  poet  was  more  tolerant  in  his  orni-theology  than 
the  priests  of  Delphos,  who,  in  the  sacred  groves  about 
their  temple,  admitted  doves,  and  doves  only. 

♦  Amorum,  lib.  ii.  eleg.  6. 


THE   MONTH   OF  MAY. 

Might  not  the  Ma,y-hoUdays  be  restored?— Melancholy  remnant  of  them 
— Recollections  of  a  May-morning  in  Italy. 

Those  who  reasonably  object  to  the  feudality  of  the 
old  times,  or  the  extreme  inequalities  of  their  condi- 
tion, think  that  the  old  holidays  were  essentially  con- 
nected with  these  inequalities,  and  that  we  could  not 
have  them  again  without  renewing  the  ancient  depend- 
ency of  the  poorer  classes  upon  the  givers  of  Christian 
dinners,  and  the  beggings  from  door  to  door  for  the 
May  garland.  But  this  does  not  follow.  We  may 
surely  rejoice  in  similar  ways,  by  other  means.  The 
object  of  all  true  advancement  is  not  to  get  rid  of  bad 
and  good  together,  but  to  retain  or  restore  the  good, 
to  increase  it.  and  enjoy  it  all  better  than  before.  The 
songs  of  May  have  been  suspended,  not  merely  be- 
cause the  intercourse  has  grown  less  between  landlord 
and  tenant,  or  the  lord  of  the  manor  and  the  villagers, 
but  because  the  singers  have  had  to  "  pay  the  piper" 
for  very  different  tunes  blown  by  trumpets,  and  blown 
by  their  own  connivance  too,  as  well  as  that  of  the 
rich.  They  have  grown  wiser  :  all  are  grown  wiser  : 
we  blame  nobody  in  these  our  philosophical  pages,  any 
more  than  we  desire  ourselves  to  be  blamed.  All 
have  had  something  to  be  sorry  for,  during  contests 
carried  on  with  partial  knowledge  ;  and  all  will  doubt- 
less do  away  the  wrong  part  of  contest,  in  proportion 


THE    MONTH    OF    MAY.  169 

as  knowledge  increases.  We  blame  not  even  the  con- 
tests themselves  ;  which  in  the  mysterious  working  of 
the  operations  of  this  world  may  have  been  necessary, 
for  aught  we  know,  to  the  speedier  abolition  of  the 
evils  mixed  up  with  them.  All  we  mean  to  say  is, 
that  as  knowledge  and  comfort  advance,  there  is  no 
reason  whatever  why  old  good  things  should  not  re- 
vive, as  well  as  new  good  ones  be  created  ;  and,  for 
our  parts,  if  society  were  wise,  comfortable,  and  in  a 
condition  to  enjoy  itself  without  hurting  the  feelings 
of  any  portion  of  it,  we  do  not  see  how  it  could  help 
renewing  its  bursts  of  delight  and  congratulation 
amidst  the  beauties  of  new  seasons,  any  more  than  it 
could  help  seeing  them,  and  knowing  how  beautiful 
they  are. 

Meantime,  as  certain  patient  and  hopeful  politicians, 
not  long  ago,  kept  a  certain  small  fire  alive,  in  the 
midst  of  everything  that  threatened  to  put  it  out, 
which  is  now  lighting  all  England,  and  promising  bet- 
ter times  to  the  very  seasons  we  speak  of,  so  shall  we 
persist,  as  we  have  for  these  twenty  years  past,*  in 
keeping  up  a  certain  fragrant  and  fiowery  belief  on 
the  altars  of  May  and  June,  in  these  sequestered  cor- 
ners of  literature,  ready  against  those  better  times,  and 
already  rewarding  us  for  our  perseverance,  because 
the  belief  is  spreadinc:,  and  the  corners  becrinninsr  to 
lose  their  solitude. 

Hue  ades : — tibi  lilia  plenis 
Ecce  ferunt  Nympha}  calathis;  tibi  Candida  Nais 
Pellentes  violas  ct  Huinriia  papavera  carpens, 
Narcissum  et  florem  jungit  bene  olentis  anetiii; 
Turn  casia  atque  aliis  intexcns  siiavibns  herbis, 
Mollia  luteola  pingit  vaccinia  caltha. — Virgil. 


♦  Now  ?cvcn-;)nd-thirty.     This  article  was  written  in  1834. 
VOL    I.  8 


170  THE    MONTH    OF    MAY. 

Come,  take  the  presents  which  the  nymphs  prepare. 

White  lilies  in  full  canisters  they  bring, 

With  all  the  purple  glories  of  the  spring. 

The  daughters  of  the  flood  have  search' d  the  mead 

For  violets  pale,  and  cropp'd  the  poppy's  head. 

The  brief  narcissus  and  fair  daffodil, 

Pansies  to  please  the  sight,  and  cassia  sweet  to  smell. 

Drydex. 

But  where  shall  we  begin,  or  what  authors  quote, 
on  the  much  quoted  subject  of  May  ?  It  is  a  principle 
with  us,  in  making  a  selection  from  our  writings,  to 
repeat  as  little  as  possible  of  what  has  been  extracted 
into  other  publications  ;  and  thus  we  are  cut  off  from  a 
heap  of  books  which  have  contributed  their  stores  to 
the  illustration  of  the  season.  We  cannot  quote 
Brady ;  we  cannot  quote  Brand :  we  cannot  quote 
Aikin  ;  nor  Hone,  nor  Howitt,  nor  ourselves  (which  is 
hard),  nor  the  venerable  Stowe,  nor  Forster,  nor  Pat- 
more;  ngr  again,  in  poetry,  may  we  repeat  the  quota- 
tion from  Chaucer  about  May  and  the  Daisy ;  nor 
Milton's  Ode  to  May-morning ;  nor  Spenser's  joyous 
dance  on  the  subject  (in  his  Eclogues) ;  nor  his  divine 
personification  of  the  month  in  the  Faerie  Queene,  Book 
VI. ;  nor  Shakspeare's  passage  in  Henry  the  Eighth, 
about  the  impossibility  of  keeping  people  in  their  beds 
on  May-morning;' nor  Moore's  "Young  May-moon," 
("young"  moon  for  "new,"  thus  prettily  turning  Luna 
into  a  girl  of  fifteen;)  nor  Thomson's  rich  landscape 
in  the  Castle  of  Indolence  "  atween  June  and  May;" 
nor  Mr.  Loviband's  "  Tears  of  old  May-day  ;"  nor  Gi?y 
on  the  May-pole ;  nor  Wordsworth's  bit  about  the 
month,  nor  Dr.  Darwin's  ode  (which,  luckily,  is  not 
worth  quoting),  nor  twenty  other  poets,  great  and 
small ;  nor  Keats  (one  of  the  first),  who  has  described 
a  May  bush  "  with  the  bees  about  it."     And  so  with 


THE    MONTH    OF    MAY.  171 

this  we  conclude  our  list  of  negations ;  for  even  out 
of  tilings  negative,  we  would  show  how  a  positive 
pleasure  may  be  extracted. 

But  the  poets  are  not  yet  exhausted  on  this  subject, 
— nor  a  fiftieth  part  of  them.  How  could  they  be,  and 
May  be  what  it  is,  especially  in  the  south  ?  We  only 
wish  we  had  time  and  space,  and  a  huge  library,  and 
could  quote  all  we  could  think  of,  the  reader  should 
feel  as  if  our  pages  scented  of  May-blossom,  and  ran 
over  with  milk  and  honey.  We  hope,  however,  to 
give  him  a  specimen  or  two  before  we  close  our  article. 
Meantime,  in  order  to  get  rid  of  all  the  melancholy 
that  will  force  itself  into  the  subject,  and  make  a  clear 
field  for*our  true  May-time,  we  have  two  observations 
to  make;  first,  that  if  the  first  of  the  month  turn  out 
badly,  it  is  not  the  fault  of  the  May-day  of  our  ances- 
tors, which  was  twelve  days  later,  or  what  is  now  called 
Old  May-day  (the  day  otherwise  does  not  much  sig- 
nify ;  for  it  is  a  sentiment  and  not  a  date,  which  is  the 
thing  concerned) ;  and  second,  that  the  only  remnant 
of  the  old  festivities  now  left  us,  like  a  sorry  jest  and 
a  smeared  face,  is  that  melancholy  burlesque  the  chim- 
ney-sweepers,— melancholy,  however,  not  to  them- 
selves, and  so  far,  to  nobody  else ;  neither  would  we 
have  them  brow-beaten,  but  made  as  merry  as  possi- 
ble on  this  their  only  holiday  ; — but  it  is  melancholy  to 
think,  that  all  the  mirth  of  the  day  is  left  to  their  keep- 
ing. If  their  trade  were  a  healthy  one,  it  would  be 
another  matter ;  if  we  were  even  sure  that  they  were 
not  beaten  and  bruised  when  they  got  home,  it  would 
be  something.  As  it  is,  we  can  only  give  money  to  them 
(if  one  has  it)  and  wish  them  a  less  horrible  mixture 
of  tinsel,  dirty  skin,  dance,  and  disease.  Nevertheless, 
the  dnnce  is  somethin?:  sacred  be  the  dance,  and  the 


•172  THE    MONTH    OF    MAY. 

desecration  thereof;  and  sacred  the  laugh  of  the  fright- 
fully red  lips  amidst  that  poisonous  black.  Give  them 
money,  for  God's  sake,  all  you  that  inhabit  squares 
and  great  streets,  and  then  do  your  utmost,  from  that 
day  forward,  never  again  to  let  May-day  blossom  into 
those  funereal  flowers  of  living  and  fantastic  death. 

The  last  pleasant  remnant  of  a  town  exhibition  in 
connection  with  the  old  May  holidays,  was  the  milk- 
maids' garland.  There  was  something  in  that.  A  set 
of  buxom  lasses,  breathing  of  the  morning  air  and  the 
dairy,  were  a  little  more  native  to  the  purpose  than 
these  poor  devils  of  the  chimney.  But  even  these 
have  long  vanished.  They  are  rarely  to  be  found, 
even  in  the  exercise  of  their  daily  calling.  Mifd-maids 
have  been  turned  into  milk-men  ;  and  when  the  latter, 
in  their  transference  of  the  virgin  title  to  the  buyers 
instead  of  the  sellers  of  milk,  call  out  (as  they  do  in 
some  quarters  of  the  town)  "  Come,  pretty  maids," 
nine  old  women  issue  out  of  the  areas  in  the  street, 
milk-jug  in  hand,  and  all  hobbling  ; — all  rheumatic,  in 
consequence  of  not  having  been  in  the  fields  these 
twenty  years. 

"My  soul,  turn  from  them."  Get  not  rheumatic 
thyself,  nor  do  thou,  dear  reader,  consent  to  be  old  be- 
fore thy  time,  and  oppressed  with  cough  and  chagrin, 
especially  in  spring  weather  ;  but  get  up  betimes  on  a 
May  morning,  if  it  be  only  in  fancy,  and  send  your 
thoughts  wandering  among  the  dewy  May-bushes,  and 
the  songs  of  birds.  Nay,  if  you  live  in  the  country, 
or  on  the  borders  of  it,  and  if  the  morning  itself  be  not 
ungenial,  it  will  do  you  no  harm  to  venture  personally, 
as  well  as  spiritually,  among  the  haunts  of  your  jovial 
ancestors, — the  men.  who  helped  to  put  blood  and 
spirit  into  your  race  ;  or  if  cosy  old  habit  is  too  strong 


THE    MONTH    OF    MAY.  173 

for  you  to  begin  at  so  short  a  notice,  and  the  united 
charms  of  bed  and  breakfast  prevail  over  the  "  raw" 
air,  you  are  a  man  too  masculine  at  heart,  and  too 
generous,  not  to  wish  that  your  children  may  grow  up 
in  better  habits  than  yourself,  or  recall  the  morning 
hours  of  your  own  childhood  ;  and  they  can  go  forth  into 
the  neighborhood,  and  see  what  is  to  be  seen, — what 
beauteous  and  odorous  May-boughs  they  can  bring 
home,  young  and  fair  as  themselves — the  flowery 
breath  of  morning — the  white  virgin  blossom — the 
myrtle  of  the  hedges.  The  voices  of  children  seem  as 
natural  to  the  early  morn  as  the  voice  of  the  birds. 
The  suddenness,  the  lightness,  the  loudness,  the  sweet 
confusion,  the  sparkling  gayety,  seem  alike  in  both. 
The  sudden  little  jangle  is  now  here,  and  now  there ; 
and  now  a  single  voice  calls  out  to  another  voice,  and 
the  boy  is  off  like  the -bird. 

When  we  had  the  like  opportunities,  not  a  May  did 
we  pass,  if  we  could  help  it,  without  keeping  up  the 
good  old  religion  of  the  season,  and  heaping  ourselves 
and  our  children  with  blossom  enough  to  make  a  bower 
of  the  breakfast  room  :  so  that  we  only  preach  what 
we  have  practised.  If  we  were  happy,  it  added  to  our 
happiness,  and  was  like  a  practical  hymn  of  gratitude. 
If  we  were  unhappy,  it  helped  to  save  our  unhappiness 
from  the  addition  of  impatience  and  despair.  We 
looked  round  upon  the  beautiful  country,  and  the ' 
world  of  green  and  blossom,  and  said  to  ourselves, 
"  We  can  still  enjoy  these.  We  still  belong  to  the  par- 
adise of  good-will.''^ 

Therefore  we  say  to  alPgood-willcrs,  "  Enjoy  what 
you  can  of  May-time,  and  help  others  to  enjoy  it,  if  it 
be  but  with  a  blossom,  or  a  verse,  or  a  pleasant  thought. 
Let  us  all  help,  each  of  us,  to  keep  up  our 'spark  of  the 


174  THE    MONTH    OF    MAY. 

sacred  fire — the  same,  we  may  dare  to  believe,  which 
fires  the  buds  themselves,  and  the  song  of  the  birds,  and 
puts  the  flush  into  the  cheek  of  delight ;  and  hope,  faith, 
and  charity  into  the  heart  of  man  ;  for  if  one  great  cause 
of  love  and  good-will  does  not  do  this,  what  does,  or 
what  can  ? 

May,  or  the  time  of  the  year  analogous  to  it  in  dif- 
ferent countries,  is  more  or  less  a  holiday  in  all  parts 
of  the  civilized  world,  and  has  been  such  from  time  im- 
memorial. Nothing  but  the  most  artificial  state  of 
life  can  extinguish  or  suspend  it :  it  is  always  ready  to 
return  with  the  love  of  nature.  Hence  the  vernal 
holidays  of  the  Greeks  and  Romans,  their  songs  of  the 
Swallow,  and  vigils  of  the  Goddess  of  Love  ;  hence  the 
Beltein  of  the  Celtic  nations,  and  the  descent  of  the  god 
Krishna  upon  the  plains  of  Indra,  where  he  sported,* 
like  a  proper  Eastern  prince,  with  sixteen  thousand 
milk-maids  ;  a  reasonable  assortment. 

In  no  place  in  the  world  perhaps  but  in  England 
(which  is  another  reason  why  so  great  and  beautiful  a 
country  should  get  rid  of  the  disgrace),  is  the  remnant 
of 'the  May-holyday  reduced  to  so  melancholy  a  bur- 
lesque as  our  soot  and  tinsel.  The  necessities  of  war 
and  trade  may  have  produced  throughout  Europe  a 
suspension  of  the  main  spirit  of  the  thing,  and  a  con- 
sciousness that  the  means  of  enjoyment  must  be  re- 
stored before  there  can  be  a  proper  return  to  it.  We 
hope  and  believe,  that  when  they  are  restored,  the  en- 
joyment will  be  greater  than  ever,  through  the  addi- 
tion of  taste  and  knowledge.  But  meanwhile,  we  do 
not  believe  that  the  sense  of  its  present  imperfection 
has  been  suffered  anywhere  else  to  fall  to  a  pitch  so 
low.  In  Tuscany,  where  we  have  lived,  it  has  still  its 
guitar  and  its  song ;  and  its  jokes  are  on  pleasant  sub- 


THE    MONTH    OF    MAY.  175 

jects,  not  painful  ones.  We  remember  being  awakened 
on  May-day  morning,  at  the  village  of  Maiano  near 
Fiesole,  by  a  noise  of  instruments  and  merry  voices  in 
the  court  of  the  house  in  which  we  lodged, — a  house 
with  a  farm  and  vineyard  attached  to  it,  where  the 
cultivator,  or  small  farmer,  lived  in  a  smaller  detached 
dwelling,  and  accounted  to  the  proprietor  for  half  the 
produce — a  common  arrangement  in  that  part  of  the 
world.  The  air  which  was  played. and  sung  was  a 
sort  of  merry  chaunt,  as  old  perhaps  as  the  time  of 
Lorenzo  de  Medici ;  the  words  to  it  were  addressed  to 
the  occupiers  of  the  mansion,  to  the  neighbors,  or  to 
anybody  who  happened  to  show  their  face;  and  they 
turned  upon  an  imaginary  connection  between  the 
qualities  of  the  person  mentioned,  and  the  capabilities 
of  the  season.  We  got  up,  and  looked  out  of  the  win- 
dow ;  and  there,  in  the  beautiful  Italian  morning,  under 
a  blue  sky,  amidst  grass  and  bushes,  and  the  white  out- 
houses of  the  farm,  stood  a  group  of  rustic  guitar-play- 
ers, joking  good-humoredly  upcm  every  one  who  ap- 
peared, and  welcomed  as  good-humoredly  by  the  per- 
son joked  on.  The  verses  were  in  homely  couplets  ; 
and  the  burden  or  leading  idea  of  every  couplet  was 
the  same.  A  respectable  old  Jewish  gentleman,  for 
instance,  resided  there  ;  and  he  no  sooner  showed  his 
face,  than  he  was  accosted  as  the  patron  of  the  corn- 
season, — as  the  genial  influence  without  whom  there 
was  to  be  no  bread. 

Ora  di  Maggio  fiorisce  il  grano, 

Ma  non  puo  estrarsi  senza  il  Sior  Abramo. 

Now  in  May-time  comes  the  corn ;  but,  quoth  he,  though  come  I  am, 
I  should  never  have  been  here,  but  for  Signor  Abraham. 

A  lady  put  forth  her  pretty  laughing  face  (and  a  mos* 


176  THE    MONTH    OF    MAY. 

good-tempered  woman  she  was).     She  is  hailed  as  the 
goddess  of  the  May-bush. 

Ora  di  Maggio  viene  il  fior  di  spina, 

Ma  non  viene  senza  la  Signora  AUegrina. 

Now  in  May-time  comes  the  bush,  all  to  crown  its  queen-a ; 
But  it  never  would  without  Signora  AUegrina. 

A  poor  fellow,  a  servant  named  Giuseppino  or  Pep- 
pino  (Joe)  who  was  given  to  drinking  (a  rare  thing  in 
Italy),  and  was  a  great  admirer  of  the  fair  sex  (a  thing 
not  so  uncommon),  crosses  the  court  with  a  jug  in  his 
hand.  It  was  curious  to  see  the  conscious,  but  not  re- 
sentful face,  with  which  he  received  the  banter  of  his 
friends. 

Ora  di  Maggio  fiorisce  amor  e  vino, 

Ma  ni  I'un  ni  I'altro  senza  il  Sior  Peppino. 

Now  in  May-time  comes  the  flower  of  love  and  wine  als6 ; 
But  there's  neither  one  nor  t'  other,  without  Signor  Joe. 

With  this  true  bit  of  a  taste  of  May  for  the  reader's 
ruminations,  we  close  our  present  article.  It  would  be 
an  "advancement"  to  look  out  of  a  May-morning  in 
England,  and  see  guitar-players  instead  of  chimney- 
sweeps.* 

*  Since  this  article  was  written,  the  condition  of  the  chimney-sweep- 
ers has  been  greatly  mitigated. 


THE   GIULI   TRE.* 

Specimen  of  Sonnets  written  on  this  siiiject  by  the  Abate  Casti, 

The  Giuli  Tre  (Three  Juliuses,  so  called  fron  a 
head  of  one  of  the  Popes  of  that  name)  are  th-^e 
pieces  of  money,  answering  to  about  fifteen  pence  of 
our  coin,  for  which  the  Italian  poet,  Casti,  says  he  was 
pestered  from  day  to  day  by  an  inexorable  creditor. 
The  poet  accordingly  had  his  revenge  on  him  and  in- 
carcerated the  man  in  immortal  amber,  by  devoting  to 
the  subject  no  less  than  two  hundred  sonnets,  which  he 
published  under  the  above  title.  The  Abate  Casti  is 
known  to  the  English  public,  by  means  of  Mr.  Stew- 
art Rose's  pleasant  abridgement,  as  the  author  of  the 
Animali  Parlanti ;  and  he  is  also  known  to  what  we 
suppose  must  be  called  the  English  private,  as  the 
writer  of  a  set  of  Tales  in  verse,  which  an  acquaint- 
ance of  ours  says  "  everybody  has  read,  and  nobody 
acknowledges  to  have  read."  The  Animali  Parlanti  is 
celebrated  throughout  Europe.  The  Tales  have  the  un- 
deniable merit  which  a  man  of  genius  puts  into  what- 
ever work  he  condescends  to  write  ;  but  they  are  a 
gross  mistake  in  things  amatory,  and  furnish  one  of 
those  portentous  specimens  of  excess  on  the  side  of 
free  writing,  which  those  who  refer  every  detail  of 

•  Pronounced  ("  For  the  benefit  of  the  country-gentlemen,"  and  for 
the  aake  of  the  euphony  in  the  perusal  of  our  versions)  Jooke  Tray. 

8* 


178  THE    GIULI    TRE. 

the  world  to  Providence  could  only  account  for  by 
supposing,  that  some  such  addition  of  fuel  was  neces- 
sary to  the  ordinary  inflammability  of  the  young  and 
unthinking. 

The  work  before  us,  as  the  Florentine  editor  ob- 
serves, is  in  every  respect  unexceptionable.  He  in- 
forms us,  that  it  is  not  liable  to  a  charge  brought 
against  the  Abate's  other  works,  of  being  too  careless 
in  point  of  style,  and  un-idiomatic.  The  Giuli  Tre, 
according  to  him,  speak  the  true  Italian  language  ;  so 
that  the  recommendation  they  bring  with  them  to  for- 
eigners is  complete. 

We  proceed  to  give  some  specimens.  The  fertility 
of  fancy  and  learned  allusion,  with  which  the  author 
has  written  his  two  hundred  sonnets  on  a  man  coming 
to  him  every  day  and  asking  him  for  Tre  Giuli,  is  in- 
ferior only  to  what  Butler  or  Marvell  might  have  made 
of  it.  The  very  recurrence  of  the  words  becomes  a 
good  joke. 

Nobody  that  we  have  met  with  in  Italy  could  I'esist 
the  mention  of  them.  The  priest  did  not  pretend  if. 
The  ladies  were  glad  they  could  find  something  to  ap- 
prove in  a  poet  of  so  erroneous  a  reputation.  The 
man  of  the  world  laughed  as  merrily  as  he  could. 
The  patriot  was  happy  to  relax  his  mustachios.  Even 
the  bookseller,  of  whom  we  bought  them,  laughed  with 
a  real  laugh,  and  looked  into  the  book  as  if  he  would 
fain  have  sat  down  and  read  some  of  it  with  us,  in- 
stead of  going  on  with  his'  business. 

We  shall  notice  some  of  the  principal  sonnets  that 
struck  us  throughout  the  work,  and  wish  we  could  re- 
view them  all,  partly  that  we  might  give  as  much  ac- 
count of  it  as  possible,  and  partly  because  the  jest  is 
concerned  in  showing  to  what  a  length  it  is  carried. 


THE    GIULt    TRE.  179 

But  we  are  compelled  to  be  brief.  It  may  be  as  well 
to  mention,  that  the  single  instead  of  double  rhymes 
which  the  poet  uses,  and  which  render  the  measure 
exactly  similar  to  that  of  the  translation,  have  a  ludi- 
crous effect  to  an  Italian  ear. 

In  this  third  sonnet,  the  poet  requests  fables  and 
dreams  to  keep  their  distance  : — 

Lungi,  o  favole,  o  sogni,  or  voi  da  me, 
Or  che  la  Musa  mia  tessendo  va 
La  vera  istoria  delli  Giuli  Tre. 

Ye  dreams  and  fables,  keep  aloof,  I  pray, 
While  tliis  my  Muse  keeps  spinning,  as  she  goes, 
The  genuine  history  of  the  Giuli  Tre. 

Son.  8. — His  Creditor,  he  says,  ought  not  to  be  as- 
tonished at  his  always  returning  the  same  answer  to 
his  demand  for  the  Giuli  Tre,  because  if  a  man  who 
plays  the  organ  or  the  hautboy  were  always  to  touch 
the  same  notes,  the  same  sounds  would  always  issue 
forth. 

Sonnet  10. 

Ben  cento  volte  ho  replicato  a  te 

Q,uesta  istessa  infallibil  verita, 

Che  a  conto  niio,  da  certo  tempo  in  qui. 

La  razza  de'  quattrini  si  perde. 

Tu  non  ostante  vicni  intorno  a  me 

Con  insofTribilc  imporlunita, 

E  per  quel  maledetti  Giuli  Tre 

Mi  perscguiti  senza  carita. 

Forse  in  disperazion  ridur  mi  vuo', 
Ond'  io  m'uppichi,  e  vuoi  vcdcrmi  in  giu 
Pender  col  laccio  al  collo  1     Oh  qucsto  no. 
Risolvcroinmi  a  non  pagarti  pin, 
E  in  guisa  tal  tc  disprrar  faro, 
E  vo'  puittosto  che  ti  ajipichi  tu. 

I've  said  for  ever,  and  again  I  say. 
And  it's  a  truth  as  plain  as  truth  can  be, 


180  THE    GIULI    TRE. 

That  from  a  certain  period  to  this  day, 
Pence  are  a  family  quite  extinct  with  me. 
And  yet  you  still  pursue  me,  and  waylay, 
With  your  insufferable  importunity, 

And  for  those  d d  infernal  Giuli  Tre 

Haunt  me  without  remorse  or  decency. 

Perhaps  you  think  that  you'll  torment  me  so. 
You'll  make  me  hang  myself?     You  wish  to  say 
You  saw  me  sus.  per  coll. — No,  Giuli,  no. 
The  fact  is,  I  '11  determine  not  to  pay ; 
And  drive  you,  Giuli,  to  a  state  so  low, 
That  you  shall  hang  yourself,  and  I  be  gay. 

Son.  13. — The  poet  does  not  know  whether  there  is 
a  plurality  of  worlds,  whether  the  moon  is  inhabited, 
etc.  He  is  inclined  to  doubt  whether  there  can  be  a 
people  who  had  not  Adam  for  their  father.  But  if 
there  is,  he  longs  to  go  up  there  and  live  among  them. 
Nevertheless,  he  fears  it  would  be  of  no  avail,  as  his 
Creditor  would  get  Father  Daniel  to  show  him  the 
way,  and  come  after  him.* 

Son.  31. — When  an  act  has  been  very  often  repeated, 
he  says  that  the  organs  perform  it  of  their  own  accord, 
without  any  attention  on  the  part  of  the  will.  Thus 
mules  go  home  to  the  stable,  and  parrots  bid  one  good- 
morning  ;  and,  thus,  he  says,  the  Creditor  has  a  habit 
of  asking  him  for  the  Giuli  Tre,  and  he  has  a  habit  of 
answering,  "  I  haven't  got  'em." 

Sonnet  35. 

Mai  1'  uom  felice  in  vita  sua  non  fu. 
Fanciullo  un  guardo  soi  tremar  lo  fa 
duindi  trapassa  la  piu  fresca  eta 
Intento  alle  bell'  arti  e  alle  virtu. 
Poi  nel  fiero  bollor  di  gioventu 
Or  d'  amore  or  di  sdegno  ardendo  va ; 


•  Father  Daniel  is  author  of  a  work  entitled  "  Travels  through  the 
World  of  Des  Cartes." 


THE    GIULI    TRE.  I8i 

Di  qua  malanni,  e  cancheri  di  la, 

E  guai  cogli  anni  crescon  sempre  piti. 

Alfiri  vengono  i  debiti ;  e  allor  si 
Che  pill  speme  di  ben  allor  non  v'e, 
E  anch'  io  la  vita  mia  trassi  cosi : 
E  il  dibito  fatal  de'  Giuli  Tre 
Ora  ai  malanni  che  passai  fin  qui 
Solcnnemente  il  eampimento  die. 

No :  none  are  happy  in  this  best  of  spheres. 

IjO  :  when  a  child,  we  tremble  at  a  look : 

Our  freshest  age  is  wither'd  o'er  a  book  ; 

The  fine  arts  bite  us,  and  the  great  characters. 

Then  we  go  boiling  with  our  youthful  peers 

In  love  and  hate,  in  riot  and  rebuke  ; 

By  hook  misfortune  has  us,  or  by  crook. 

And  griefs  and  gouts  come  tliick'ning  with  one's  years. 

In  fine,  we've  debts : — and  when  we've  debts,  no  ray 

Of  hope  remains  to  warm  us  to  repose. 

Thus  has  my  own  life  pass'd  from  day  to  day ; 

And  now,  by  way  of  climax,  though  not  close, 

The  fatal  debit  of  the  Giuli  Tre 

Fills  up  the  solemn  measure  of  my  woes. 

Son.  41. — Ho  says,  that  as  the  sun  with  his  genial 
energy  strikes  into  the  heart  of  the  mountains  of  Gol- 
conda  and  Peru,  and  hardens  substances  there  into 
gold  and  gems,  so  the  hot  activity  of  his  Creditor  has 
hardened  the  poet's  heart,  till  at  length  it  has  produced 
that  hard,  golden,  and  adamantine  No !  which  has 
rendered  the  Giuli  Tre  precious. 

Son.  44. — He  says,  that  he  was  never  yet  bound  to 
the  conjugal  yoke, — a  yoke  which  is  as  pleasant  to 
those  who  have  it  not,  as  it  is  disagreeable  to  those 
who  have  :  but  that  if  he  were  married,  his  children 
would  certainly  resemblp  the  proprietor  of  the  Giuli 
Tre,  and  that  he  should  see  Creditor-kins,  or  little. 
Creditors,  all  about  him  ; — Credilorelli. 

Son.  72. — If  a  man  has  a  littlo  tumor  or  scratch  on 


182  THE    GIULI    TR£ 

his  leg  or  arm,  and  is  always  impatiently  touching  it, 
the  little  wound  will  become  a  great  one.  So,  he 
says,  it  is  with  his  debt  of  the  Giuli  Tre.  The  debt, 
he  allows,  is  in  itself  no  very  great  thing,  but  the  in- 
tolerable importunity  of  his  Creditor, — 

Considerabilissimo  lo  fa, — 
Makes  it  a  very  considerable  one. 

Son.  78. — As  various  climates  and  countries  give 
rise  to  a  variety  of  characters  among  mankind, — as  the 
Assyrian  and  Persian  has  been  accounted  luxurious, 
the  Thracian  fierce,  and  the  Roman  was  once  upon  a 
time  bold  and  magnanimous,  so  he  suspects  that  the 
climate  in  which  he  lives  must  be  eminent  for  produ- 
cing hard  Creditors. 

Son.  79. — He  wishes  that  some  logician,  who  under- 
stands the  art  of  persuading  people,  would  be  charita- 
ble enough  to  suggest  to  him  some  syllogism  or  other 
form  of  argument,  which  may  enable  him  to  prove  to 
his  Creditor  the  impossibility  of  paying  money  when 
a  man  has  not  got  it. 

Son.  89. — Philosophers  maintain,  he  says,  that  if  two 
bodies  stand  apart  from  each  other,  and  are  distinct, 
it  is  impossible  they  can  both  stand  in  the  same  place. 
Otherwise  one  body  also  might  be  in  several  places  at 
once.  He  therefore  wonders  how  it  is,  that  his  Credi- 
tor is  to  be  found  here  and  there  and  everywhere. 

Son.  96. — He  tells  us,  that  his  Creditor  is  fond  of 
accosting  him  on  physical  subjects,  and  wishes  to 
know  the  nature  of  lightning,  of  the  winds,  colors, 
&c.,  and  whether  the  system  of  Tycho  Brahe  is  better 
■than  that  of  Pythagoras.  The  poet  answers  that  it 
is  impossible  to  get  at  the  secrets  of  Nature ;  and 
that  all  that  he  knows  upon   earth  is,  that  a  man  is 


THE    GIULI    TRE.  183 

perpetually  asking  him  for  Tre  Giuli,  and  he  has  not 
got  them. 

Sonnet  98. 

Non  poche  volte  ho  inteso  dir  da  chi 
E  Galeno  ed  Ippocrate  studio 
Che  vi  sono  fra  I'anno  alcuni  di, 
Ne'  quali  cavar  sangue  non  si  puo. 
Se  ragione  vi  sia  di  far  cosi, 
Se'l  vedano  i  Dottori,  io  non  lo  so ; 
E  luogo  non  mi  par  questo  ch'e  qui 
Di  dire  il  mio  parer  sopra  di  cio. 

So  ben  che  il  Creditor  de'  Giuli  Tre 
Tanti  riguardi  e  scrupoli  non  ha, 
Ne  osserva  queste  regole  con  me  ; 
Ch'anzi  ogni  giorno  procurando  va 
Da  me  trarre  il  denar,  ch  e  un  non  so  che 
Ch'  ha  col  sangi:^  una  qualche  afBnita. 

Often  and  often  have  I  understood 

From  Galen's  readers  and  Hippocrates's, 
That  there  are  certain  seasons  in  diseases 
In  which  the  patient  oughtn't  to  lose  blood. 
Whether  the  reason  that  they  give  be  good, 
Or  doctors  square  their  practice  to  the  thesis, 
I  know  not ;  nor  is  this  the  best  of  places 
For  arguing  on  that  matter,  as  I  could. 

All  that  I  know  is  this, — that  GiuU  Tre 
Has  no  such  scruple  or  regard  with  me, 
Nor  holds  the  rule  himself:  for  every  day 
He  docs  his  best,  and  that  most  horribly, 
To  make  mc  lose  my  cash :  which  I  must  say, 
Has  with  one's  blood  some  strange  affinity. 

Son.  101. — The  poet  alludes  to  the  account  of  words 
freezing  at  the  pole  ;  and  says,  that  if  he  were  there 
with  his  Creditor,  and  a  thaw  were  to  take  place, 
nothing  would  be  heard  around  them  but  a  voice  call- 
ing for  the  Giuli  Tre. 


184  THE    GIULI    TRE. 

Sonnet  113. 

Si  mostra  il  Creditor  spesso  con  me 
Piacevole  ed  affabile  cosi, 
Come  fra  amici  suol  farsi  ogni  di. 
E  par  che  piii  non  pensi  a'  Giuli  Tre  ; 
E  solo  vuol  saper,  se  il  Prusso  Re 
Libero  Praga,  e  di  Boemia  usci  ; 
Se  I'armata  naval  da  Brest  parti  ; 
Se  Annover  prese  il  marescial  d'  Etre. 

E  poiche  da  lontano  la  piglii), 

A  poco  a  poco  al  quia  calando  va, 

E  dice, — "  Ebben,  quando  i  Tre  Giuli  avr6 1" 

Cosi  talor  col  sorcio  il  gatto  fa ; 

Ci  ruzza,  e  scherza,  e  I'intrattiene  un  po', 

E  la  fatal  graffiata  alfin  gli  da. 

My  Creditor  seems-?often  in  a  way 
Extremely  pleasant  with  me,  and  polite  ; 
Just  like  a  friend  : — you'd  fancy,  at  first  sight, 
He  thought  no  longer  of  the  Giuli  Tre. 
All  that  he  wants  to  know  is,  what  they  say 
Of  Frederick  now ;  whether  his  guess  was  right 
About  the  sailing  of  the  French  that  night ; 
Or,  What's  the  news  of  Hanover  and  D'Estrees. 

But  start  from  whence  he  may,  he  comes  as  truly, 
By  little  and  little,  to  his  ancient  pass. 
And  says,  "  Well — when  am  I  to  have  the  Giuli  1" 
'Tis  the  cat's  way.     She  takes  her  mouse,  alas! 
And  having  purred,  and  eyed,  and  tapp'd  liim  duly, 
Gives  him  at  length  the  fatal  coup  de  grace. 

Sonnet  122. 

Oh  quanto  scioccamente  vaneggift 

Chi  Arnaldo,  e  LuUo,  ed  il  Geber  segui, 

E  lavorO  nascosto  e  notte  e  di, 

Ed  i  metalli  trasformar  pens6  : 

E  intorno  ad  un  crocciuol  folle  sudo. 

In  cui  mercuri,  e  solfi,  e  sali  unr, 

Ne  finalmente  mai  gli  riuscr 

Coll'arte  oprar  ci6  che  natura  oprJ). 

Ma  oh.!  perchfe  si  bell' arte  in  noi  non  e  1 
Perche  all'uom  d'imitar  vietato  fu 


THE    GIULI    TRE.  185 

I  bei  lavori  clie  natura  fe  ! 
Studiar  vorrei  la  chimica  virtCi, 
•  E  fatto  il  capital  de'  Giuli  Tre, 

Rompere  il  vaso,  e  non  pensarvi  piu. 

Oh,  with  what  folly  did  they  toil  in  vain, 
Who  thought  old  Arnald,  LuUy,  or  Geber  wise, 
And  night  and  day  labor'd  with  anxious  eyes 
To  turn  t!.eir  metals  into  golden  grain  ! 
How  did  their  pots  and  they  perspire  again 
Over  their     'Iphurs,  salts,  and  mercuries, 
And  never,  after  all,  could  see  their  prize, 
Or  do  what  Nature  does,  and  with  no  pain  I 

Yet  oh,  good  heavens !  why,  why,  dear  Nature  say, 

This  lovely  art — why  must  it  be  despis'd  1 

Why  mayn't  we  follow  this  thy  noblest  way  1 

I'd  work  myself;  and  having  realiz'd, 

Good  God  !  a  capital  of  Giuh  Tre, 

Break  up  my  tools,  content  and  aggrandiz'd. 

Son.  124. — He  supposes  that  there  was  no  such 
Creditor  as  his  in  tlie  time  of  David,  because  in  the 
imprecations  that  are  accumulated  in  the  hundred  and 
eighteenth  psalm,  there  is  no  mention  of  such  a  person. 

Son.  127. — His  Creditor,  he  tells  us,  disputed  with 
him  one  day,  for  argument's  sake,  on  the  immortality 
of  the  soul ;  and  that  the  great  difficulty  he  started 
was,  how  anything  that  had  a  beginning  could  be 
without  an  end.  Upon  which  the  poet  asked  him, 
whether  he  did  not  begin  one  day  asking  him  for  the 
Giuli  Tre,  and  whether  he  has  left  off  ever  since. 

Son.  128. — He  savs  that  as  Languedoc  is  still  so 
called  from  the  use  of  the  affirmative  particle  oc  in 
that  quarter,  as  writers  in  other  parts  of  France 
used  to  be  called  writers  of  oui,  and  as  Italy  is  de- 
nominated the  lovely  land  of  si,  so  his  own  language, 
from  his  constant  habit  of  using  the  negative  particle 
to  the  Creditor  of  the  Giuli  Tre,  ought  to  be  called 
the  language  of  710. 


186  THE    GIULI    TRE. 

Son.  134. — He  informs  us,  that  his  Creditor  has 
lately  taken  to  learning  French  ;  and  conjectures,  ihat 
finding  he  has  hitherto  asked  for  the  Giuli  Tre  to  no 
purpose  in  his  own  language,  he  wishes  to  try  the  effi' 
cacy  of  the  French  way  of  dunning. 

Sonnet  140. 

Armato  tutto  il  Creditor  non  gia, 

Di  queH'armi  die  Achilla  o  Enea  vesti, 

Onde  di  tanta  poi  mortalita. 

La  Frigia  I'un,  I'altro  I'ltalia  empi; 

Ne  di  quelle  onde  poscia  in  altra  eta. 

D'estinti  corpi  Orlando  il  suol  copri : 

Ma  di  durezza  e  d'importunita 

E  d'aspri  modi  armato  ei  m'assali. 

Ed  improvviso  in  contro  mi  lancio 
La  richiesta  mortal  di  Giuli  Tre  ; 
lo  mi  schermisco,  indi  gli  scaglio  un  N6 : 
Seguia  la  pugna  ed  Lnfieria ;  ma  il  pie 
Da  lui  volgendo  alfin  ratto  men  v6, 
E  vincitor  la  fuga  sol  mi  fe'. 

My  Creditor  has  no  such  arms,  as  he 

Whom  Homer  trimipets,  or  whom  Virgil  sings, 

Arms  wliich  dismiss'd  so  many  souls  in  strings 

From  warlike  Ilium  and  from  Italy. 

Nor  has  he  those  of  later  memory, 

W^ith  which  Orlando  did  such  heaps  of  things ; 

But  with  hard  hints,  and  constant  botherings, 

And  such  rough  ways, — with  these  he  warreth  me. 

And  suddenly  he  launcheth  at  me,  lo  ! 
His  terrible  demand,  the  Giuli  Tre  ; 
I  draw  me  back,  and  thrust  him  with  a  No  ! 
Then  glows  the  fierce  resentment  of  the  fray, 
Till  turning  round,  I  scamper  from  the  foe ; 
The  only  way,  I  find,  to  gain  the  day. 

Son.  142. — The  first  time  the  seaman  hears  the  hor- 
rible crashing  of  the  tempest,  and  sees  the  fierce  and 
cruel  rising  of  the  sea,  he  turns  pale,  and  loses  both 
his  courage  and  his  voice ;  but  if  he  lives  long  enough 


THE    GIULI    TRE.  187 

to  grow  gray  in  his  employment,  he  sits  gayly  at  the 
stern,  and  sings  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  winds. 
So  it  is  with  the  poet.  His  Creditor's  perpetual  song 
of  the  Giuli  Tre  frightened  him  at  first ;  but  now  that 
his  ears  have  grown  used  to  it,  he  turns  it  into  a  mu- 
sical accompaniment  like  the  billows,  and  goes  singing 
to  the  sound. 

Son.  148. — A  friend  takes  him  to  see  the  antiquities 
in  the  Capitol,  but  he  is  put  to  flight  by  the  sight  of  a 
statue  resembling  his  Creditor. 

Son.  185. — He  marks  out  to  a  friend  the  fatal  place 
where  his  Creditor  lent  him  the  Giuli  Tre,  showing 
how  he  drew  out  and  opened  his  purse,  and  how  he 
counted  out  to  him  the  Giuli  with  a  coy  and  shrinking 
hand.  He  further  shows,  how  it  was  not  a  pace  dis- 
tant from  this  spot  that  the  Creditor  began  to  ask  him 
for  the  Giuli :  and  finishes  with  proposing  to  purify 
the  place  with  lustral  water,  and  exorcise  its  evil 
genius. 

Son.  189. — He  laments  that  happy  age  of  the  world, 
in  which  there  was  a  community  of  goods ;  and  says 
that  the  avidity  of  individuals  and  the  invention  of 
meum  and  iuum  have  brought  an  immense  number  of 
evils  among  mankind,  his  part  of  which  he  suflTers  by 
reason  of  the  Giuli  Tre. 

Son.  200. — Apollo  makes  his.  appearance,  and  re- 
bukes the  poet  for  wasting  his  time,  advising  him  to 
sing  of  things  that  are  worthy  of  immortality.  Upon 
which  the  poet  stops  short  in  a  song  he  was  chanting 
upon  his  usual  subject,  and  bids  good-night  for  ever  to 
his  Creditor  and  the  Giuli  Tre. 

Not  a  word  of  payment. 


A  FEW  REMARKS  ON  THE  RARE  VICE 
CALLED  LYING  ; 

OR, 

AN  APPEAL  TO  THE  MODESTY  OP  ANTI-BALLOTMEN. 

Impossibility  of  finding  a  liar  in  England. — Lying,  nevertheless,  aU 
lowed  and  organized  as  a  mutual  accommodation,  except  in  the  case 
of  voters  at  elections. — Reason  of  this,  a  wish  to  have  all  the  lies  on  one 
side. —  The  right  of  lying  arrogated  by  the  rich  as  a  privilege. —  Vindi- 
cation, nevertheless,  of  the  rich  as  human  beings. — Social  root  of  appcu- 
rently  unsocial  feelings. — Conventional  liars  not  liars  out  of  the  pale 
of  conventionality. — Falsehood  sometimes  told  for  the  sake- of  truth  and 
good. — Final  appeal  to  the  consciences  of  anti-ballotmen. 

The  great  argument  against  the  Ballot  is,  that  it 
teaches  people  duplicity, — that  the  elector  will  promise 
his  vote  to  one  man,  and  give  it  to  another.  In  short, 
that  he  will  lie.  Lying  is  a  horrid  vice, — ww-English. 
It  must  not  be  suffered  to  pollute  our  shores.  People 
lie  in  France.  They  lie  in  Italy.  They  lie  in  Spain 
and  Portugal.  They  lie  in  Africa,  in  Asia,  and 
America.  But  in  England,  who  ever  heard  of  such 
a  thing  ? 

"  what  IS  lying  1"  says  the  English  courtier. 

"  Can't  say  indeed,  sir,"  says  the  footman. 

"(Nor  I,"  says  the  government  spy. 

"  Never  heard  of  it,"  says  the  tradesman. 

"  Never  borough-mongered  with  it,"  says  the  peer. 

"  Never  bribed  with  it,"  says  the  member  of  parliament. 

"  Never  subscribed  the  39  articles  with  it,"  says  the  collegian. 

"  Never  pretended  to  a  call  with  it,"  says  the  clergyman. 

"  Never  nolo-episcoparUd  with  it,"  says  the  bishop. 


THE    RARE    VICE    CALLED    LYING.  189 

"  Never  played  a  ruse  de  guerre  with  it,"  says  the  general. 

"  Never  told  it  to  a  woman,"  eays  the  man  of  gallantry. 

"  Never  argued  for  it,"  says  the  barrister. 

"  Never  sent  in  a  medicine  with  it,"  says  the  apothecary. 

"  Never  jockeyed  with  it,"  says  the  turf-man. 

"  Never  dealt  with  it,"  says  the  man  at  Crockford's. 

"  Never  wrote  great  A  with  it,"  says  tlic  underwriter. 

"  Never  took  in  the  custom-house  with  it,"  says  the  captain. 

"  Never  doctor'd  my  port  with  it,"  says  the  wine-merchant. 

"  Never  praised  or  condemned  with  it,"  says  the  critic. 

"  Never  concealed  a  motive  with  it,"  says  the  partisan. 

"  Never  puff'd  with  it,"  says  the  bookseller. 

"  Nor  I,"  says  the  manager. 

"  Nor  I,"  says  the  auctioneer. 

'•  Nor  I,"  says  the  quack-doctor. 

"  Never  used  it  in  my  bread,"  says  the  baker. 

"  Nor  I  in  a  bill,"  says  the  tailor. 

"  Nor  I  in  a  measure,"  says  the  coalman. 

"  Can't  conceive  how  anybody  ever  thought  of  it,"  says  the  innkeeper. 

"  Never  made  an  excuse  with  it,"  says  the  fine  lady. 

"  Nor  I,"  says  the  lady's  maid. 

"  Nor  I,"  says  the  milliner. 

"  Am  a  horrible  sinner,  but  never  went  so  far  as  that,"  says  the  Methodist. 

"  Never  uttered  one  to  my  wife,  pretty  jealous  soul,"  says  the  husband. 

"  Nor  I  to  my  husband,  poor  man,"  says  the  wife. 

"  Nor  I  to  my  mother,"  says  the  little  boy. 

"  Nor  I  in  one  of  my  speeches,"  says  the  king. 

"  Nor  I  in  mine,"  says  the  minister. 

"  Nor  I  at  a  foreign  court,"  says  the  diplomatist.  , 

"  Should  nev^forgive  myself  such  a  tiling,"  says  the  pickpocket. 

"  Couldn't  live  under  it,"  says  the  beggar. 

"  Never  saved  myself  from  starvation  by  it,"  says  the  Irishman. 

"  Nor  I  got  a  bawbee,"  says  the  Scotchman. 

"  Nor  I  a  penny,"  says  Ai.r,  England.  » 

O  spirits  of  Lucian,  of  Rabelais,  of  Moliere,  of 
Henry  Fielding,  of  Sterne, — look  down  upon  borough- 
mongers  and  their  anti-ballot  men,  in  the  shopkeeping 
nation  of  England,  and  in  the  nineteenth  century,  pro- 
testing against  the  horrible  innovation  of  encouraging 
the  bribed  and  misrepresented  to  say  one  thing  in  self- 
defence,   and  inli'iid  (iiiolhrr  ! 


190  A    FEW    REMARKS    ON 

Lying  is  the  commonest  and  most  conventional  ol 
all  the  vices.  It  pervades,  more  or  less,  every  class 
of  the  community,  and  is  fancied  to  be  so  necessary 
to  the  carrying  on  of  human  affairs,  that  the  practice 
is  tacitly  agreed  upon ;  nay,  in  other  terms,  openly 
avowed.  In  the  monarch,  it  is  king-craft.  In  the 
statesman,  expediency.  In  the  churchman,  mental  res- 
ervation. In  the  lawyer,  the  interest  of  his  client. 
In  the  merchant,  manufacturer,  and  shopkeeper,  secrets 
of  trade.  It  was  the  opinion  of  King  James,  that 
without  the  art  of  lying,  a  king  was  not  worthy  to 
reign.  This  was  his  boasted  "king-craft,"  which 
brought  his  son  to  the  block  ;  for  if  poor  Charles  was 
a  "  martyr,"  it  was  certainly  not  to  the  spirit  of  truth. 
Lord  Bacon  was  of  opinion  that  lying,  like  alloy  in 
metals,  was  a  debasement,  but  good  for  the  working. 
It  worked  him,  great  as  he  was,  into  a  Httle  and  ruined 
man.  Pleasant  Sir  Henry  Wotton  (himself  an  ambas- 
sador) defined  an  ambassador  to  be  "  an  honest  man 
sent  to  lie  abroad  for  the  good  of  his  country."  Paley 
openly  defends  the  "  mental  reservation"  of  the  church- 
man,— of  the  subscriber  to  the  thirty-nine  articles, 
&c. ;  and  his  is  the  great  text-book  of  the  universities. 
If  you  go  into  a  shop  for  any  article,  you'T^now  very 
well  that  you  cannot  be  secure  of  having  it  genuine ; 
nor  do  you  expect  the  shopkeeper  to  tell  you  the 
truth.  The  grocer  notoriously  sells  Jamaica  coffee 
for  Mocha,  the  tobacconist  his  own  snuft'  for  Latakia 
and  Macubau,  the  linen-draper  cotton  for  thread,  and 
British  goods  for  India. 

Well,  granting  all  this, — says  the  boroughmonger, 
— don't  you  see  that  it  overdoes  your  argument,  and 
that  if  we  all  lie  and  cheat  one  another  at  this  rate, 


THE    RARE    VICE    CALLED    LYING.  191 

we  in  reality  do  not  cheat,  and  that  the  practice  be- 
comes comparatively  innocent? 

Excuse  me — we  answer — you  are  cheated,  or  how 
could  you  cheat  ?  and  what  would  be  the  use  of  the 
practice?  You  know  the  fact  is  general,  and  may 
often  detect  it  in  the  particular  ;  but  still  you  are  cheat- 
ed in  the  gross.  And  supposing  the  case  to  be  other- 
wise, or  that  the  practice  becomes  comparatively  in- 
nocent by  its  universality  (which  is  to  be  granted),  why 
not  make  the  duplicity  charged  against  the  Ballot 
equally  innocent,  by  the  same  process,  and  for  the  same 
general  accommodation  ? 

If  it  were  understood  ihat  the  elector  had  the  same 
right  and  necessity  to  prevaricate  for  his  convenience, 
as  the  candidate  has  to  bribe  or  cajole  for  his, — if  the 
thins:  were  understood  on  both  sides,  and  the  voter's 
promise  came  to  be  of  no  more  account  than  the  great 
man's,  or  than  tht  pretty  things  said  to  the  voter's  wife 
and  children,  lohere  would  he  the  harm  of  it,  according 
TO  YOUR  OWN  SHOWING  ?  or  wherc  the  greater  vice  of 
it  than  that  of  the  famous  "  king-craft,"  or  of  the  min- 
ister's "  expediency,"  or  of  the  thirty-nine  article-man's 
"  mental  reservation  ?" 

The  truth  is,  that  such  would  and  will  be  the  result ; 
so  much  so,  that  candidates  will  at  last  cease  to  prac- 
tise their  tricks  and  tell  their  lies,  out  of  a  hopeless- 
ness of  doing  anything  with  the  voters.  But  we  will 
tell  the  anti-balloter,  what  the  harm  will  be  in  the  mean- 
while. The  iiarm  will  be  that  lies  will  no  longer  be 
told  for  his  sake  exclusively  ;  and  this  is  the  whole 
real  amount  of  his  grievance.  His  grievance  is  pre- 
cisely what  the  prince's  is,  who  likes  to  have  all  the 
"  craft"  to  himself,  and  not.be  deceived  by  his  ministers. 
It  is  what  the  minister's  is,  who  complains  of  want  of 


192  A    PEW    REMARKS    ON 

truth  in  the  opposition  ; — what  the  opposition's  is,  when 
they  cry  "Oh!  oh!"  against  the  same  things  which 
they  did  when  in  place ; — what  the  wholesale  dealer's 
cry  is  against  the  retail,  and  the  master  manufacturer's 
against  the  workman.  The  weapons  of  state  and  ex- 
pediency will  at  length  be  turned  against  expediency 
itself, — against  power  and  monopoly,, — and  used  in  be- 
half of  the  Many  ;  and  this  is  what  the  virtuous  indig- 
nation of  the  Few  cannot  bear. 

But  an  insidious  compliment  may  be  paid  to  *'  us 
youth"  of  the  press, — us  "  philosophic  radicals  ;"  and  it 
may  be  asked  us, "  What !  do  you  advocate  lying  ?  You 
advocate  it  under  any  circumstances  ?  You  wish  a 
man  to  say  one  thing  and  intend  another  ?  Is  the  above 
your  picture  of  society  and  of  human  nature  ?  We 
thought  you  had  a  better  opinion  of  it ; — were  believ- 
ers in  the  goodness  of  the  human  heart,  and  did  not 
take  all  your  fellow-creatures  for  such  a  parcel  of  hyp- 
ocrites." 

"  My  dear  sir,"  we  answer,  "  we  do  not  see  you,  and 
we  know  not  who  vou  mav  be.  We  know  not  whether 
you  are  one  of  the  greatest  liars  under  the  sun,  or  only 
a  conventional  liar,  like  our  friends  the  statesman  and 
the  baker  (good  and  true  fellows  perhaps  out  of  the 
pale  of  their  offices  and  bake-houses).  We  are  also 
totally  ignorant  whether  you  are  a  man  who  has  a  re- 
gard for  truth  at  the  expense  of  conventionalities.  Per- 
haps you  are.  Perhaps  you  are  even  a  martyr  to  those 
virtues,  with  the  possession  of  which  you  are  pleased 
to  compliment  ourselves.  But  this  we  can  tell  you; 
first,  that  if  you  ^^ere  the  greatest  liar  that  ever 
breathed,  and  ourselves  were  lovers  of  the  truth  to  an 
extent  of  which  you  have  no  conception,  and  if  you 
were  to  come  to  us  for  help  against  a  murderer,  or  a 


THE    RARE    VICE    CALLED    LYING.  193 

bailiff,  or  a  tax-gatherer,  or  a  lying  boroughmonger, 
we  should  make  no  scruple  to  tell  a  lie  for  your  sake ; 
and  we  can  tell  you,  secondly,  that  our  above  picture 
of  society  and  our  opinion  of  human  nature,  are  two 
very  different  things;  because  we  believe  the  vices  of 
society  to  result  entirely  from  its  imperfect  knowledge, 
education,  and  comfort;  whereas  we  believe  human  na- 
ture to  be  capable  of  all  good  and  true  things,  and  to 
be  ever  advancing  in  them,  the  Ballot  itself  notwith- 
standing ;  for  the  very  worst  of  the  Ballot  is,  that  it 
exchanges  a  lie  for  the  sake  of  an  individual,  into  a  lie 
for  the  sake  of  the  country  ;  and  the  best  of  it  is,  that  it 
will  ultimately  do  away  the  necessity  of  either.  With 
the  Ballot  must  come  extended  suffrage  {that  is  what 
you  are  afraid  of).  From  extended  suffrage  must  come 
Universal  Suffrage.  And  from  Universal  Suffrage 
must  come  universal  better  treatment  of  man  by  his 
fellows ; — universal  wiser  treatment ; — universal  com- 
forts ; — food  for  all,  fire  and  clothing  for  all ;  education 
for  all,  monopolies  for  none ; — hence  no  necessity  for 
lying ;  which  is  only  the  resource  of  the  unequally 
treated  against  those  whose  lies,  in  pretending  a  right 
so  to  treat  them,  are  far  greater  and  more  vicious. 

O  love  of  truth  !  believer  in  all  good  and  beautiful 
things  !  believer  even  in  one's  self,  and  therefore  be- 
liever in  others,  and  such  as  are  far  better  than  one's 
self!  putter  of  security  into  the  heart,  of  solidity  into 
the  ground  we  tread  upon,  of  loveliness  into  the  flow- 
ers, of  hope  into  the  stars  !  retainer  of  youth  in  age, 
and  of  comfort  in  adversity  !  bringer  of  tears  into  the 
eyes  that  look  upon  these  imperfect  words,  to  think  how 
large  and  longing  the  mind  of  man  is,  compared  with 
his  frail  virtues  and  his  transitory  power,  and  what 
mornings  of  light  and  abundance  thou  hast  in   store 


vol,.    I, 


194  A    FEW    REMARKS    ON 

nevertheless,  for  the  whole  human  race,  preparing  to 
ripen  for  them  in  accordance  with  their  belief  in  its 
possibility,  and  their  resolution  to  work  for  it  in  loving 
trust !  Oh  !  shall  they  be  thought  guilty  of  deserting 
thee,  because,  out  of  the  very  love  of  truth  they  feel 
themselves  bound  to  proclaim  to  what  extent  it  does 
not  exist  ?  because,  out  of  the  very  love  of  truth,  they 
will  not  suffer  those  who  care  nothing  for  it  to  pretend 
to  a  religious  zeal  in  its  behalf,  w^hen  the  lie  is  to  be 
turned  against  themselves  ? 

One  of  the  bitterest  sights  in  the  world  to  a  lover  of 
equal  dealing,  is  the  selfish  and  conceited  arrogance 
with  which  the  rich  demand  virtues  on  the  side  of  the 
poor,  which  they  do  not  exercise  themselves.  The  rich 
man  lies  through  his  lawyer — through  his  dependent 
— through  his  footman ;  lies  when  he  makes  civil 
speeches ; — lies  when  he  subscribes  articles; — lies  when 
he  goes  to  be  married  (vide  marriage  service) ; — lies 
when  he  takes  "  the  oaths  and  his  seat ;" — but  that  the 
poor  man  should  lie  !  that  he  should  give  a  false  prom- 
ise ! — that  he  should  risk  the  direful,  and  unheard-of, 
and  unparliamentary  crime  of  political  perjury  !  Oh, 
it  is  not  to  be  thought  of!  Think  of  the  example — 
think  of  the  want  of  principle — think  of  the  harm  done 
to  the  poor  man's  "  own  mind" — to  his  sense  of  right 
and  wrong — to  his  eternal  salvation.  Nay,  not  that 
either: — they  have  seldom  the  immodesty  to  go  as  far 
as  that.  But  what  enormous  want  of  modesty  to  go 
so  far  as  they  do  !  Why  should  the  poor  man  be  ex- 
pected to  have  scruples  which  the  rich  laugh  at?  Why 
deny  him  weapons  which  they  make  use  of  against 
himself? — in  this  respect,  as  in  too  many  others,  re- 
sembling their  "  noble"  feudal  ancestors,  who  had  the 


THE    RARE    VICE    CALLED    LYING.  195 

nobleness  to  fight  in  armor,  while  the  common  soldier 
was  allowed  none. 

Yet  let  us  not  be  supposed  to  think  ill  of  the  rich  or 
of  anybody,  beyond  the  warrant  of  humanity — beyond 
all  modesty  of  our  own,  or  sense  of  the  frailties  which 
we  possess  plentifully  in  common  with  our  fellow- 
creatures.  We  think  ill,  in  fact,  of  no  one,  in  the  only 
bad  and  deplorable  sense  of  the  term, — that  sense  which 
would  make  him  out  to  be  something  wicked  from  sheer 
preference  of  evil  to  good,  or  of  harm  to  others  without 
impulse  or  excuse.  We  are  of  opinion,  that  all  classes 
and  descriptions  of  men  are  modified  as  they  are  by 
circumstances;  and  instead  of  lamenting  that  there  is 
so  much  vice  during  their  advancement  towards  a 
wiser  condition.  We  rejoice  that  there  is  so  much  vir- 
tue,— so  much  indelible  and  hopeful  good.  Nay,  we 
can  see  a  certain  large  and  gallant  healthiness  of  social 
constitution  in  man,  in  the  very  circumstance  of  vice's 
taking  so  gay  or  indifferent  an  air  during  what  it  sup- 
poses to  be  a  necessity,  or  a  condition  of  human  na- 
ture ;  and  the  gayer  it  is,  in  some  respects,  the  better; 
not  only  because  of  its  having  the  less  uneasy  or  mean 
conscience,  but  because  it  is  the  less  given  to  cant  and 
hypocrisy,  and  is  ashamed  of  putting  on  a  grave  face 
of  exaction  upon  others.  The  very  worst  of  all  vices 
(cruelty  excepted) — tiiat  pride  which  seems  to  make 
the  rich  and  prosperous  hold  their  fellow-creatures  in 
such  slight  regard, — is  often  traceable  only  to  a  per- 
verted sense  of  that  identical  importance  in  their  eyes, 
which  is  grounded  in  a  social  feeling,  afid  which,  under 
a  wiser  education,  would  make  them  proud  of  sympa- 
thizing: with  the  humblest.  Those  courtiers — those 
Whigs  and  Tories — those  lawyers — those  tradesmen 
we  have  been  tnlking  of, — how   shocked   would  not 


196  A    FEW    REMARKS    ON 

many,  perhaps  most    of  them   be,  and  what  a  right 
would  they  not  have  to  resent  it, — if  you  treated  them 
as  Uars  beyond  the  pale  of  their  conventional  duplicity  ? 
Take  the  grocer  or  the  linen-draper  from  behind  his 
counter — apply  to  him  in  any  concern  but  that  of  his 
shop, — and  most  likely  he  is  as  great  a  truth-teller  as 
the  rest.     There  is  nothing  you  may  not  take  his  word 
for.     And  then  see  what  affections  all  these  people 
have ;  what  lovers   they  are  of  their  familes  ;  what 
anxious  providers  for  their  children  ;  what  "  good  fel- 
lows" as  friends  and  helpers ;   and  what  a  fool  and 
coxcomb  you  ought  to  consider  yourself,  if  you  dared 
to  set  yourself  up,  and  pretend  that  you  were   a  bit 
better  than   any  one  of  them,  even  though   circum- 
stances might  enable  you  to  be  free  from  some  of  their 
errors, — perhaps  with  greater  of  your  own.     False- 
hood itself  is  sometimes  almost  pure  virtue, — at  least 
it  contemplates  anything  but  the  ordinary  and  unjust 
results  of  falsehood  ;  as  in  the  case  of  a  jury,  who  de- 
liberately tell  a  lie  when,  in  order  to  save  a  man  from 
transportation,  or  a  poor  child  from  the  jail,  they  bring 
in  a  verdict  of  Not  Guilty  on  the  principal  charge, 
•knowing  him  to  be  otherwise.    Here  the  law  is  violated 
for  the  sake  of  justice,  and  a  lie  told  for  the  sake  of  the 
beautiful  truth  that  we  ought  to  be  humane  to  one  an- 
other.    But  the  law  should  be  changed?  True:  and 
so  should  ALL  LAWS  be  changed  which  force  just  feel- 
ings upon  falsehood  in  self-defence ; — and  as  the  rich 
advance  in  their  notions  of  justice,  and  the  poor  get 
better  fed  and  taught,  all  such  laws  will  be  changed. 
In  short,  dear  anti-Ballot  people,  whoever  you  are, 
and  granting,  for  the  sake  of  the  argument,  that  all 
which  you  say  about  the  voter's  prevarication  will  be 
rue  (for  in  innumerable  instances  we  deny  that  it  will, 


THE    UARE    VICK    CALLED    LYING.  197 

and  in  all  it  must  eventually  come  to  nothing  in  the  hope- 
lessness of  applying  to  him),  but  granting,  for  the  sake 
of  the  argument,  that  all  which  you  anticipate  in  that 
respect  will  come  to  pass,  wo  have  two  short  things  to 
say  to  you,  which  appear  to  us  to  sum  up  all  that  is 
necessary  for  the  refutation  of  your  reasoning  :  first, 
that  before  you  have  a  right  to  ask  the  voter  not  to  be 
false  to  you,  you  must  get  rid  of  your  own  falsehoods, 
great  and  small ;  and  second,  that  when  you  do  get 
rid  of  them,  you  will  he  such  very  conscientious  men^ 
that  you  will  not  have  the  face  to  ask  him  to  violate 
HIS  conscience. 


CRITICISM  ON   FEMALE   BEAUTY. 

I. HAIR,    FOREHEAD. 

Fault-finding  of  the  old  style  of  criticism  ridiculed. — Painting  with  the 
pen. —  Ugliness  of  bemdy  without  feeling. —  The  hand  of  the  poisoner.— 
Hair. —  Under  what  circumstances  it  is  allowable  to  use  artificial  helps 
to  beauty. — Red  and  golden  hair. — Hair  of  I/ucretia  Borgia. — Fore- 
head. 

Criticism,  for  the  most  part,  is  so  partial,  splenetic, 
and  pec  mtic,  and  has  such  little  right  to  speak  of  what 
it  unde  akes  to  censure,  that  the  words  "  criticism  on 
beauty'  sound  almost  as  ill  as  if  a  man  were  to  an- 
nounce something  unpleasant  upon  something  pleasant. 

And,  certainly,  as  criticism,  according  to  its  general 
practice,  consists  in  an  endeavor  to  set  the  art  above 
its  betters,  and  to  render  genius  amenable  to  want  of 
genius  (particularly  in  those  matters  which,  by  consti- 
tuting the  very  essence  of  it,  are  the  least  felt  by  the 
men  of  line  and  rule),  so  critics  are  bound  by  their 
trade  to  object  to  the  very  pleasantest  things.  De- 
light, not  being  their  business,  "  puts  them  out."  The 
first  reviewer  was  Momus,  who  found  fault  with  the 
Goddess  of  Beauty.* 

*  Since  the  remarks  in  this  exordium  were  written,  periodical  criti- 
cism has  for  the  most  part  wholly  changed  its  character.  Instead  of 
lault-finding,  it  has  become  beautj^-finding.  This  extreme,  of  course, 
has  also  its  wrong  side  ;  but,  upon  the  whole,  is  unquestionably  on  the 
bigher  side  of  the  art.     There  are  few  poor  books,  however  indulgently 


CRITICISM    ON"     r'RMALE    IJEAUTV.  199 

We  have  sometimes  fancied  a  review  set  up  by  this 
anti-divinity  in  heaven.  It  would  appear,  by  late  dis- 
coveries in  the  history  of  the  globe,  that,  as  one  species 
of  production  has  become  extinct,  so  new  ones  may 
have  come  into  being.  Now,  imagine  the  gods  occa- 
sionally putting  forth  some  new  work,  which  is  criti- 
cised in  the  "  Olympian  Review."  Chloris,  the  goddess 
of  flowers,  for  instance,  makes  a  sweet-brier : — 

"  The  Sweet-Brier,  a  new  bush,  by  Chloris,  Goddess 
of  Flowers.     Rain  and  Sun,  4104. 

"This  is  another  hasty  production  of  a  lady,  whom 
we  are  anxious  to  meet  with  a  more  satisfied  face. 
Really,  we  must  say,  that  she  tires  us.  The  other  day 
we  had  the  pink.  It  is  not  more  than  a  year  ago  that 
she  flamed  upon  us  with  the  hearts-ease  (pretty  names 
these) ;  then  we  were  all  to  be  sunk  into  a  bed  of  luxury 
and  red  leaves  by  the  rose ;  and  now,  ecce  iterum 
Kosina,  comes  a  new  edition  of  the  same  effeminate 
production,  altered,  but  not  amended,  and  made  care- 
less, confused,  and  full  of  harsh  points.  These  the 
fair  author,  we  suppose,  takes  for  a  dashing  variety  ! 
Why  does  she  not  consult  her  friends  ?  Why  must  we 
be  forced  to  think  that  she  mistakes  her  talents,  and 
that  she  had  better  confine  herself  to  the  production  of 
daisies  and  dandelions  ?  Even  the  7'ose,  which  has 
been  so  much  cried  up  in  certain  quarters,  was  not 
original.  It  was  clearly  suggested  by  that  useful  pro- 
duction of  an  ortliodox  friend  of  ours, — the  cabbage ; 
which  has  occasioned  it  to  be  pretty  generally  called 
the  cabbage-rose.  The  sweet-brier,  therefore,  is  imi- 
tation upon  imitation,  cramfte  (literally)  his  cocta  ;*  a 

treated,  tliat  will  not,  soon  die;  but  the  very  best  books  sometimes  re- 
quire aid,  because  of  their  depth  and  originality.  It  is  obscr^'able  that 
the  indulgent  spirit  of  criticism  has  increased  with  its  profundity. 


200  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

thing  not  to  be  endured.  To  say  the  truth,  which  we 
wish  to  do  with  great  tenderness,  considering  the 
author's  sex,  this  sweet  brier  bush  is  but  a  rifaccimento 
of  the  rose-bush.  The  only  difference  is,  that  every- 
thing is  done  on  a  pettier  scale,  the  flowers  hastily 
turned  out,  and  a  superabundance  of  those  startling 
points  added,  which  so  annoyed  us  in  the  rose  yclept 
moss  ;  for  there  is  no  end  to  these  pretty  creatures  the 
roses.  Let  us  see.  There  is  the  cabbage-rose,  the 
moss-rose,  the  musk-rose,  the  damask-rose,  the  hundred- 
leaved  rose,  the  yellow  rose,  and  earth  only  knows  how 
many  more.  Surely  these  were  enough,  in  all  con- 
science. Most  of  them  rank  little,  above  extempore 
effusions,  and  were  hardly  worth  the  gathering ;  but 
after  so  much  trifling,  to  go  and  alter  the  style  of  a 
commonplace  is  a  spirit  of  mere  undoing  and  em- 
brouillement,  and  then  palm  it  upon  us  for  something 
free,  forsooth,  and  original,  is  a  desperate  evidence  of 
falling  off!  We  cannot  consent  to  take  mere  wildness 
for  invention  ;  a  hasty  and  tangled  piece  of  business, 
for  a  regular  work  of  art.  What  is  called  nature  will 
never  do.  Nature  is  unnatural.  The  best  production 
by  far  of  the  fair  author,  was  the  auricula,  one  of 
those  beautiful  and  regular  pieces  of  composition,  the 
right  pz'oportions  of  which  are  ascertained,  and  re- 
ducible to  measurement.  But  tempora  mutantur. 
Our  fair  florist  has  perhaps  got  into  bad  company. 
We  have  heard  some  talk  about  zephyrs,  bees,  wild 
birds,  and  such  worshipful  society.  Cannot  this  in- 
genious person  be  content  with  the  hot-house  invented 
by  Vulcan  and  Co.  without  gadding  abroad  in  this  dis- 
reputable manner  ?  We  have  heard  that  she  speaks 
with  disrespect  of  ourselves  ;  but  we  need  not  assure 

*  Cabbage  twice  cooked. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  201 

the  reader  that  this  can  have  no  weight  with  an  honest 
critic.  By-the-by,  why  this  brier  is  called  sweet,  we 
must  unaflectedly  and  most  sincerely  say,  is  beyond 
our  perceptions." 

We  were  about  to  give  a  specimen  of  another  arti- 
cle, by  the  same  reviewer,  on  the  subject  of  our  present 
paper: — "Woman,  being  a  companion  to  Man,"  &c. 
But  the  tone  of  it  would  be  intolerable.  We  shall  ■* 
therefore  proceed  with  a  more  becoming  and  grateful 
criticism,  such  as  the  contemplation  of  the.  subject  nat- 
urally produces.  Oh,  Pygmalion,  who  can  wonder 
(no  artist  surely)  that  thou  didst  fill  in  love  with  the 
work  of  thine  own  hands  !  Oh,  Titian !  Oh,  Raphael ! 
Oh,  Apelles  !  We  could  almost  fancy  this  sheet  of 
paper  to  be  one  of  your  tablets,  our  desk  an  easel,  our 
pen  a  painting-brush ;  so  impossible  does  it  seem  that 
the  beauty  we  are  about  to  paint  should  not  inspire  us 
with  a  gusto  equal  to  your  own ! 

"  Come,  then,  the  colors  and  the  ground  prepare." 

This  ink-stand  is  our  palette.  We  handle  our  pen  as 
if  there  were  the  richest  bit  of  color  in  the  world  at 
the  end  of  it.  The  reds  and  whites  look  as  if  we 
could  eat  them.  Look  at  that  pearly  tip  at  the  end  of 
the  ear.  The  very  shade  of  it  has  a  glow.  What  a 
light  on  the  forehead !  What  a  moisture  on  the  lip ! 
What  a  soul,  twenty  fathom  deep,  in  the  eyes !  Look 
at  us,  madam,  if  you  please.  The  eye  right  on  ours. 
The  forehead  a  little  more  inclined.  Good.  What  an 
expression !  Raphael, — it  is  clear  to  me  that  you  had 
not  the  feeling  we  have:  for  you  could  paint  such  a 
portrait,  and  we  cannot.  We  cannot  paint  after  the 
life.  Titian,  how  could  you  contrive  it?  Apelles, 
may  we  trouble  you  to  explain  yourself?     It  is  lucky 

9* 


202  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

for  the  poets  that  theh'  mistresses  are  not  obUged  to  sit 
to  them.  They  would  never  write  a  line.  Even  a 
prose-writer  is  baffled.  How  Raphael  managed  in  the 
Palazzo  Chigi, — howSacchini  contrived,  when  he  wrote 
his  "Rinaldo  and  Armida,"  with  Armida  by  his  side, 
— is  beyond  our  comprehension.  We  can  call  to  mind, 
but  we  cannot  copy.  Fair  presence,  avaunt!  We 
conjure  you  out  of  our  study,  as  one  of  our  brother 
writers,  in  an  agony  of  article,  might  hand  away  his 
bride,  the  printer  having  sent  to  him  for  copy.  Come 
forth,  our  tablets.  Stand  us  instead  of  more  distract- 
ing suggestions,  our  memorandums. 

It  has  been  justly  observed,  that  heroines  are  best 
painted  in  general  terms,  as  in  "Paradise  Lost," 
"  Grace  was  in  all  her  steps,  heaven  m  her  eye,"  &c. 

or  by  some  striking  instance  of  the  effects  of  their 
beauty,  as  in  Homer,  where  old  age  itself  is  astonished 
at  the  sight  of  Helen,  and  does  not  wonder  that  Paris 
has  brought  a  war  on  his  country  for  her  sake.  Par- 
ticular description  divides  the  opinion  of  the  readers, 
and  may  offend  some  of  them.  The  most  elaborate 
portrait  of  the  heroine  of  Italian  romance  could  say 
nothing  for  her,  compared  with  the  distractions  that 
she  caused  to  so  many  champions,  and  the  millions  that 
besieged  her  in  Albracca. 

"  Such  forces  met  not,  nor  so  wide  a  camp, 
When  Agrican  with  all  his  northern  powers 
Besieged  Albracca,  as  romances  tell, 
The  city  of  Gallaphrone,  from  whence  to  win 
The  fairest  of  her  sex,  Angelica." 

Even  Apuleius,  a  very  "particular  fellow,"  who  is  an 
hour  in  describing  a  chambermaid,  enters  into  no  de- 
tails respecting  Psyche.  It  was  enough  that  the  peo- 
ple worshipped  her. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  203 

The  case  is  different  when  a  writer  describes  a 
real  person,  or  chooses  to  acquaint  us  with  his  partic- 
ular taste.  In  the  "Dream  of  Chaucer"  is  an  admira- 
ble portrait  of  a  woman,  supposed  to  be  that  of  Blanche, 
Duchess  of  John  of  Gaunt.  Anacreon  gives  us  a 
whole  length  of  his  mistress,  in  colors  as  fresh  as  if 
they  were  painted  yesterday.  The  blue  eye  is  moist 
in  its  sparkling  ;  the  cheek,  which  he  compares  to  milk 
with  roses  in  it,  is  young  for  ever.  Oh,  Titian,  even 
thy  colors  are  dry  compared  with  those  of  poetry  ! 

It  happens  luckily  for  us,  on  the  present  occasion, 
that  we  can  reconcile  particulars  with  generals.  The 
truth  is,  we  have  no  particular  taste.  We  only  de- 
mand that  a  woman  should  be  womanly  ;  which  is  not 
being  exclusive.  We  think  also  that  anybody  who 
wishes  to  look  amiable,  should  be  so.  The  detail,  with 
us,  depends  on  a  sentiment.  For  instance,  we  used  to 
ihink  we  never  could  tolerate  flaxen  hair;  yet  meet- 
ing one  day  with  a  lovely  face  that  had  flaxen  locks 
about  it,  we  thought  for  a  good  while  after,  that  flaxen 

was  your  only  wear.     Harriet  O made  us  take  to 

black  ;  and  yet,  if  it  had  not  been  for  a  combination  of 
dark  browns,  we  should  the  other  niglit  have  been  con- 
verted to  the  superiority  of  light   brown  by  Harriet 

D .     Upon  the  whole,  the  dark  browns,  chestnuts, 

&c.,  have  it  with  us ;  but  this  is  because  the  greatest 
number  of  kind  eyes  that  we  have  met,  have  looked 
from  under  locks  of  that  color.  We  find  beauty  itself 
a  very  poor  thing  unless  beautified  by  sentiment.  The 
reader  may  take  the  confession  as  he  pleases,  either  as 
an  instance  of  abundance  of  sentiment  on  our  part,  or 
as  an  evidence  of  want  of  proper  ardor  and  impar- 
tiality ;  but  we  cannot  (and  that  is  the  plain  truth) 
think  the  most  beautiful  creature  beautiful,  or  be  at  all 


204  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

affected  by  her,  or  long  to  sit  next  her,  or  go  to  a  the- 
atre with  her,  or  listen  to  a  concert  with  her,  or  walk 
in  a  field  or  a  forest  with  her,  or  call  her  by  her  Chris- 
tian name,  or  ask  her  if  she  likes  poetry,  or  tie  (with 
any  satisfaction)  her  gown  for  her,  or  be  asked  whether 
we  admire  her  shoe,  or  take  her  arm  even  into  a  din- 
ing-room, or  kiss  her  at  Christmas,  or  on  April-fool 
day,  or  on  May-day,  or  on  any  other  day,  or  dream  of 
her,  or  wake  thinking  of  her,  or  feel  a  want  in  the 
room  when  she  is  gone,  or  a  pleasure  the  more  when 
she  appears, — unless  she  has  a  heart  as  well  as  a  face, 
and  is  a  proper  good-tempered,  natural,  sincere,  hon- 
est girl,  who  has  a  love  for  other  people  and  other 
things,  apart  from  self-reference  and  the  wish  to  be  ad- 
mired. Her  face  would  pall  upon  us  in  the  course  of 
a  week,  or  even  become  disagreeable.  We  should 
prefer  an  enamelled  tea-cup ;  for  we  should  expect 
nothing  from  it.  We  remember  the  impression  made 
on  us  by  a  female  plaster-cast  hand,  sold  in  the  shops 
as  a  model.  It  is  beautifully  turned,  though  we  thought 
it  somewhat  too  plump  and  well-fed.  The  fingers, 
however,  are  delicately  tapered  :  the  outline  flowing 
and  graceful.  We  fancied  it  to  have  belonged  to  some 
jovial  beauty,  a  little  too  fat  and  festive,  but  laughing 
withal,  and  as  full  of  good-nature.  The  possessor  told 
us  it  was  the  hand  of  Madame  Brinvilliers,  the  famous 
poisoner.  The'  word  was  no  sooner  spoken,  than  we 
shrank  from  it  as  if  it  had  been  a  toad.  It  was  now 
literally  hideous  ;  the  fat  seemed  sweltering  and  full  of 
poison.  The  beauty  added  to  the  deformity.  You 
resented  the  grace :  you  shrank  from  the  look  of 
smoothness,  as  from  a  snake.  This  woman  went  to 
the  scaffold  with  as  much  indifference  as  she  distributed 
her  poisons.     The  character  of  her  mind  was  insensi- 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  205 

bility.  The  strongest. of  excitements  was  to  her  what 
a  cup  of  tea  is  to  otiier  people.  And  such  is  the  char- 
acter, more  or  less,  of  all  mere  beauty.  Nature,  if 
one  may  so  speak,  does  not  seem  to  intend  it  to  be 
beautiful.  It  looks  as  if  it  were  created  in  order  to 
show  what  a  nothing  the  formal  part  of  beauty  is, 
without  the  spirit  of  it.  We  have  been  so  used  to  it 
with  reference  to  considerations  of  this  kind,  that  we 
ha  re  met  with  women  generally  pronounced  beautiful, 
and  spoken  of  with  transport,  who  took  a  sort  of  ghastly 
and  witch-like  aspect  in  our  eyes,  as  if  they  had  been 
things  walking  the  earth  without  a  soul,  or  with  some 
evil  intention.  The  woman  who  supped  with  the 
Goule  in  the  "  Arabian  Nights,"  must  have  been  a 
beauty  of  this  species. 

But  to  come  to  our  portrait.  Artists,  we  believe, 
like  to  begin  with  the  eyes.  We  will  begin,  Hke  Anac- 
reon,  with  the  hair. 

Hair  should  be  abundant,  soft,  flexible,  growing  in 
long  locks,  of  a  color  suitable  to  the  skin,  thick  in  the 
mass,  delicate,  and  distinct  in  the  particular.  The  mode 
of  wearing  it  should  differ.  Those  who  have  it  grow- 
ing low  in  the  nape  of  the  neck,  should  prefer  wearing 
it  in  locks  hanging  down,  rather  than  turne.d  up  with 
a  comb.  The  gathering  it,  however,  in  that  manner 
is  delicate  and  feminine,  and  suits  many.  In  general, 
the  mode  of  wearing  the  hair  is  to  be  regulated  ac- 
cording to  the  shape  of  the  head.  Ringlets  hanging 
about  the  forehead  suit  almost  everybody.  On  the 
other  hand,  the  fashion  of  parting  the  hair  smoothly, 
and  drawing  it  tight  back  on  either  side,  is  becoming  to 
few.  It  has  a  look  of  vanity  instead  of  simplicity.  The 
face  must  do  everything  for  it,  which  is  asking  too  much ; 
especially  as  hair,  in  its  freer  state,  is  the  ornament  in- 


206  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    UtiAUTV. 

tended  for  it  by  nature.  Hair  is  to  the  human  aspect, 
what  foliage  is  to  the  landscape.  This  analogy  is  so 
striking,  that  it  has  been  compared  to  flowers,  and  even 
to  fruit.  The  Greek  and  other  poets  talk  of  hyacinthine 
locks,  of  clustering  locks  (an  image  taken  from  grapes), 
of  locks  like  tendrils.  The  favorite  epithet  for  a  Greek 
beauty  was  "  well-haired  ;"  and  the  same  epithet  was 
applied  to  woods.  Apuleius  says,  that  Venus  herself, 
if  she  were  bald,  would  not  be  Venus.  So  entirely  do 
we  agree  with  him,  so  much  do  we  think  that  the  sen- 
timent of  anything  beautiful,  even  where  the  real 
beauty  is  wanting,  is  the  best  part  of  it,  that  we  prefer 
the  help  of  artificial  hair  to  an  ungraceful  want  of  it. 
We  do  not  wish  to  be  deceived.  We  should  like  to 
know  that  the  hair  was  artificial ;  or  at  least  that  the 
wearer  was  above  disguising  the  fact.  This  would 
show  her  \vorthy  of  being  allowed  it.  We  remember, 
when  abroad,  a  lady  of  quality,  an  English-woman, 
whose  beauty  was  admired  by  all  Florence  ;  but  never 
did  it  appear  to  us  so  admirable,  as  when  she  observed 
one  day,  that  the  ringlets  that  hung  from  under  her 
cap  were  not  her  own.  Here,  thought  we,  it  is  not 
artifice  that  assists  beauty ;  it  is  truth.  Here  is  a  woman 
who  knows  that  there  is  a  beauty  in  hair  beyond  the 
material  of  it,  or  the  pride  of  being  thought  to  possess 
it.  Oh,  wits  of  Queen  Anne's  day,  see  what  it  is  to  live 
in  an  age  of  sentiment,  instead  of  your  mere  periwigs, 
and  reds  and  whites  ! — The  first  step  in  taste  is  to  dis- 
like all  artifice ;  the  next  is  to  demand  nature  in  her 
perfection ;  but  the  best  of  all  is  to  find  out  the  hidden 
beauty,  which  is  the  soul  of  beauty  itself,  to-wit,  the 
sentiment  of  it.  the  loveliest  hair  is  nothing,  if  the 
wearer  is  incapable  of  a  grace.  The  finest  eyes  are 
not  fine,  if  they  say  nothing.     What  is  the  finest  harp 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  207 

to  US,  strung  with  gold,  and  adorned  with  a  figure  of 
Venus,  if  it  answer  with  a  discordant  note,  and  hath 
no  chords  in  it  fit  to  be  awakened?  Long  five,  there- 
fore, say  we,  lovely  natural  locks  at  five-and-twenty, 
and  lovely  artificial  locks,  if  they  must  be  resorted  to, 
at  five-and -thirty  or  forty.  Let  the  harp  be  new  strung, 
if  the  frame  warrant  it,  and  the  sounding-board  hath  a 
delicate  utterance.  A  woman  of  taste  should  no  more 
scruple  to  resort  to  such  helps  at  one  age,  than  she 
would  consent  to  resort  to  them  at  an  as^e  when  no 
such  locks  exist  in  nature.  Till  then,  let  her  not  cease 
to  help  herself  to  a  plentiful  supply.  The  spirit  in 
which  it  is  worn  gives  the  right  to  wear  it.  Affecta- 
tion and  pretension  spoil  everything:  sentiment  and 
simplicity  warrant  it.  Above  all  things,  cleanliness. 
This  should  be  the  motto  of  personal  beauty.  Let  a 
woman  keep  what  hair  she  has,  clean,  and  she  may 
adorn  or  increase  it  as  she  pleases.  Oil,  for  example, 
is  two  different  things,  on  clean  hair  and  unclean.  On 
the  one,  it  is  but  an  aggravation  of  the  dirt :  to  the 
other,  if  not  moist  enough  by  nature,  it  may  add  a 
reasonable  grace.  The  best,  however,  is  undoubtedly 
that  which  can  most  dispense  with  it.  A  lover  is  a 
little  startled,  when  he  finds  the  paper,  in  which  a  lock 
of  hair  has  been  enclosed,  stained  and  spotted  as  if  it 
had  wrapped  a  cheesecake.  Ladies,  when  about  -to 
give  away  locks,  may  as  well  omit  the  oil  that  time, 
and  be  content  with  the  washing.  If  they  argue  that 
it  will  not  look  so  glossy  in  those  eyes  in  which  they 
desire  it  to  shine  most,  let  them  own  as  much  to  the 
favored  person,  and  he  will  never  look  at  it  but  their 
candor  shall  give  it  a  double  lustre. 

"  Love  adds  a  precious  seeing  to  the  eye;" 


208  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

and  how  much  does  not  sincerity  add  to  love  !  One 
of  the  excuses  for  oil  is  the  perfume  mixed  with  it. 
The  taste  for  this  was  carried  so  far  among  the  an- 
cients, that  Anacreon  does  not  scruple  to  wish  that  the 
painter  of  his  mistress's  portrait  could  convey  the  odor 
breathing  from  her  delicate  oiled  tresses.  Even  this 
taste  seems  to  have  a  foundation  in  nature.  A  little 
black-eyed  relation  of  ours  (often  called  Molly,  from  a 
certain  dairy  maid  turn  of  hers,  and  our  regard  for  old 
English  customs)  has  hair  with  a  natural  scent  of  spice. 
The  poets  of  antiquity,  and  the  modern  ones  after 
them,  talk  much  of  yellow  and  golden  tresses,  tresses 
like  the  morn,  &c.  Much  curiosity  has  been  evinced 
I'especting  the  nature  of  this  famous  poetical  hair  ;  and 
as  much  anxiety  shown  in  hoping  that  it  was  not  red. 
May  we  venture  to  say,  in  behalf  of  red  hair,  that  we 
are  not  of  those  in  whose  eyes  it  is  so  very  shocking? 
Perhaps,  as  "  pity  melts  the  soul  to  love,"  there  may  be 
something  of  such  a  feeling  in  our  tenderness  for  that 
Pariah  of  a  color.  It  must  be  owned  that  hair  of  this 
complexion  appears  never  to  have  been  in  j-equest ; 
and  yet,  to  say  nothing  of  the  general  liking  of  the 
ancients  for  all  the  other  shades  of  yellow  and  gold,  a 
good  red-headed  commentator  might  render  it  a  hard 
matter  to  pronounce,  that  Theocritus  has  not  given  two 
of  his  beautiful  swains  hair  amounting  to  a  positive 
fiery.  Fire-red  is  the  epithet,  however  it  may  be  un- 
derstood. 

"  Both  fiery-trcssed  heads,  both  in  their  bloom."* 

We  do  not  believe  the  golden  hair  to   have   been 
red  ;  but  this  we  believe,  that  it  was  neqj'er  to  it  than 

Idyll.  7. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY  209 

most  colors,  and  that  it  went  a  good  deal  beyond  what 
it  is  sometimes  supposed  to  have  been,  auburn.  The 
word  yellow,  a  convertible  term  for  it,  will  not  do  for 
auburn.  Auburn  is  a  rare  and  glorious  color,  and  we 
suspect  will  always  be  more  admired  by  us  of  the 
north,  where  the  fair  complexions  that  recommended 
golden  hair  are  as  easy  to  be  met  with,  as  they  are 
difficult  in  the  south.  Both  Ovid  and  Anacreon,  the 
two  greatest  masters  of  the  ancient  world  in  painting 
external  beauty,  seem  to  have  preferred  it  to  golden, 
notwithstanding  the  popular  cry  in  the  other's  favor ; 
unless,  indeed,  the  hair  they  speak  of  was  too  dark  in 
its  ground  for  auburn.  The  Latin  poet,  in  his  four- 
teenth love-elegy,  speaking  of  tresses  which  he  says 
Apollo  would  have  envied,  and  which  he  prefers  to 
those  of  Venus  as  Apelles  painted  her,  tells  us,  that 
they  were  neither  black  nor  golden,  but  mixed,  as  it 
were,  of  both.  And  he  compares  them  to  cedar  on 
the  declivities  of  Ida,  with  the  bark  stripped.  This 
implies  a  dash  of  tawny.  We  have  seen  pine-trees  in 
a  southern  evening  sun  take  a  lustrous  burnished  as- 
pect between  dark  and  golden,  a  good  deal  like  what 
we  conceive  to  be  the  color  he  alludes  to.  Anacreon 
describes  hair  of  a  similar  beauty.  His  touch,  as 
usual,  is  brief  and  exquisite  : — 

"  Deepening  inwardly,  a  dun ; 
Sparkling  golden,  next  the  sun."* 

Which  Ben  Jonson  has  rendered  in  a  line, 

"  Gold  upon  a  ground  of  black." 

Perhaps,  the  true  auburn  is  something  more  lustrous 
throughout,  and  more  metallic  than  this.     The  cedar 

♦  Ta  iicv  evSoOev,  ^cXaiva;, 
Tu  d'  et  aitpov,  ^Xiioiraf. 


210  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

with  the  bark  stripped  looks  more  Hke  it.  At  all 
events,  that  it  is  not  the  golden  hair  of  the  ancients 
has  been  proved  in  our  opinion  beyond  a  doubt,  by  a 
memorandum  in  our  possession,  worth  a  thousand 
treatises  of  the  learned.  This  is  a  solitary  hair  of  the 
famous  Lucretia  Borgia,  whom  Ariosto  has  so  praised 
for  her  virtues,  and  whom  the  rest  of  the  world  is  so 
contented  to  think  a  wretch.*  It  was  given  us  by  a 
lamented  friendf  who  obtained  it  from  a  lock  of  her 
hair  preserved  in  the  Ambrosian  library  at  Milan.  On 
the  envelope  he  put  a  happy  motto — 

"  And  beauty  draws  us  with  a  single  hair." 

If  ever  hair  was  golden,  it  is  this.  It  is  not  red,  it  is 
not  yellow,  it  is  not  auburn  ;  it  is  golden,  and  nothing 
else  :  and,  though  natural-looking  too,  must  have  had 
a  surprising  appearance  in  the  mass.  Lucretia,  beau- 
tiful in  every  respect,  must  have  looked  like  a  vision 
in  a  picture,  an  angel  from  the  sun.  Everybody  who 
sees  it,  cries  out,  and  pronounces  it  the  real  thing.  We 
must  confess,  after  all,  we  prefer  the  auburn,  as  we 
construe  it.  It  forms,  we  think,  a  finer  shade  for  the 
skin  ;  a  richer  warmth  ;  a  darker  lustre.  But  Lucre- 
tia's  hair  must  have  been  still  divine.  Mr.  Landor, 
whom  we  had  the  pleasure  of  becoming  acquainted 
with  over  it,  as  other  acquaintances  commence  over 
a  bottle,  was  inspired  on  the  occasion  with  the  foUow- 


mg  verses 


"  Borgia,  thou  once  wert  ahnost  too  august, 
And  high  for  adoration  ; — now  thou  'rt  dust ! 


*  Mr.  Roscoe  must  be  excepted,  who  has  come  into  the  field  to  run  a 
tilt  for  her.  We  wish  his  lance  may  turn  out  to  be  the  Golden  Lance 
of  the  poet,  and  overthrow  all  his  opponents.  The  greatest  scandal  in 
the  world,  is  the  readiness  of  the  world  to  beUeve  scandal. 

t  Lord  Byron. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  211 

All  that  remains  of  thee  these  plaits  infold — 
Calm  hair,  meand'ring  with  pellucid  gold  !" 

The  sentiment  implied  in  the  last  line  will  be  echoed 
by  every  bosom  that  has  worn  a  lock  of  hair  next  it, 
or  longed  to  do  so.  Hair  is  at  once  the  most  delicate 
and  lasting  of  our  materials  ;  and  survives  us,  like  love. 
It  is  so  light,  so  gentle,  so  escaping  from  the  idea  of 
death,  that  with  a  lock  of  hair  belonging  to  a  child  or  a 
friend,  we  may  almost  look  up  to  heaven,  and  compare 
notes  with  the  angelic  nature ;  may  almost  say,  "  I 
hav-e  a  piece  of  thee  here,  not  unworthy  of  thy  being 
now." 

Forehead.  There  are  fashions  in  beauty  as  well 
as  dress.  In  some  parts  of  Africa,  no  lady  can  be 
charming  under  twenty  stone. 

"  King  Chihu  put  nine  queens  to  death ; 
Convict  on  Statute,  Jvory  Teeth." 

In  Shakspere's  time,  it  was  the  fashion  to  have  high 
foreheads,  probably  out  of  compliment  to  Queen  Eliza- 
beth. They  were  thought  equally  beautiful  and  in- 
dicative of  wisdom  :  and  if  the  portraits  of  the  great 
men  of  that  day  are  to  be  trusted,  wisdom  and  high 
foreheads  were  certainly  often  found  together.  Of 
late  years,  physiognomists  have  declared  for  the  wis- 
dom of  strait  and  compact  foreheade,  rather  than  high 
ones.  We  must  own  we  have  seen  very  silly  persons 
with  both.  It  must  be  allowed,  at  the  same  time,  that 
a  very  retreating  forehead  is  apt  to  be  no  accompani- 
ment of  wit.  With  regard  to  high  ones,  they  are  often 
confounded  with  foreheads  merely  bald  ;  and  baldness, 
whether  natural  or  otherwise,  is  never  handsome ; 
though  in  men  it  sometimes  takes  a  character  of  sim- 


212  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

plicity  and  firmness.  According  to  the  Greeks,  who 
are  reckoned  to  have  been  the  greatest  judges  of 
beauty,  the  high  forehead  never  bore  the  palm.  A 
certain  conciseness  carried  it.  "A  forehead,"  says 
Junius,  in  his  Treatise  on  Ancient  Art,  "should  be 
smooth  and  even,  white,  delicate,  short,  and  of  an 
open  and  cheerful  character."  The  Latin  is  briefer.* 
Ariosto  has  expressed  it  in  two  words,  perhaps  in  one. 

"  Di  terso  avorio  era  la  fronte  lieta." 

Orlan.  Fur.  Canto  VII. 

"  Terse  ivory  was  her  forehead  glad." 

A  large  bare  forehead  gives  a  woman  a  masculine  and 
defying  look.  The  word  effrontery  comes  from  it. 
The  hair  should  be  brought  over  such  a  forehead,  as 
vines  are  trailed  over  a  wall. 

*  "  Frons  debet  esse  plana,  Candida  tenuis,  breuis,  pura." — Junius 
De  Pictura  Veterum,  Lib.  iii.  cap.  9.  The  whole  chapter  is  very  curious 
and  abundant  on  the  subject  of  ancient  beauty.  Yet  it  might  be  ren- 
dered a  good  deal  more  so.  A  treatise  on  Hair  alone  might  be  collected 
out  of  Ovid. 


CRITICISM   ON   FEMALE  BEAUTY. 

II. EYES,    EYEBROWS,    NOSE. 

Eyes.—Eyebrmos. — Frowning  without  frowning.— Eyebrows  meeting.— 
Shape  of  head,  face,  ears,  cheeks,  and  ear-rings.— Nose.— A  perplexity 
to  the  critics.- Question  of  aquiline  noses.— Angels  never  painted  with 
them. 

Eyes. — The  finest  eyes  are  those  that  unite  sense 
and  sweetness.  They  should  be  able  to  say  much, 
and  all  charmingly.  The  look  of  sense  is  proportioned 
to  the  depth  from  which  the  thought  seems  to  issue ; 
the  look  of  sweetness  to  an  habitual  readiness  of  sym- 
patjiy,  an  unaffected  willingness  to  please  and  be 
pleased.     We  need  not  be  jealous  of — 

"  Ej'es  affectionate  and  glad, 
That  seem  to  love  whate'er  they  look  upon." 

Gertrude  of  Wyoviing. 

They  have  always  a  good  stock  in  reserve  for  their 
favorites  ;  especially  if,  like  those  mentioned  by  the 
poet,  they  are  conversant  with  books  and  nature. 
Voluptuaries  know  not  what  they  talk  about,  when 
they  profess  not  to  care  for  sense  in  a  woman.  Ped- 
antry is  one  thing :  sense,  taste,  and  apprehensiveness, 
are  another.  Give  us  an  eye  that  draws  equally  from 
head  above  and  heart  beneath ;  that  is  equally  full  of 
ideas  and  feelings,  of  intuition  and  sensation.  If  either 
must  predominate,  let  it  be  the  heart.     Mere  beauty 


214  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

is  nothing  at  any  time  but  a  doll,  and  should  be  packed 
up  and  sent  to  Brobdignag.  The  color  of  the  eye  is 
a  very  secondary  matter.  Black  eyes  are  thought  the 
brightest,  blue  the  most  feminine,  gray  the  keenest. 
It  depends  entirely  on  the  spirit  within.  We  have 
seen  all  these  colors  change  characters ;  though  we 
must  own,  that  Vv^ien  a  blue  eye  looks  ungentle,  it 
seems  more  out  of  character  than  the  extremest  con- 
tradiction expressed  by  others.  The  ancients  appear 
to  have  associated  the  idea  of  gladness  with  blue  eyes  ; 
which  is  the  color  given  to  his  heroine's  by  the 
author  just  quoted.  Anacreon  attributes  a  blue  or  a 
gray  eye  to  his  mistress,  it  is  difficult  to  say  which : 
but  he  adds,  that  it  is  tempered  with  the  moist  delicacy 
of  the  eye  of  Venus.  The  other  look  was  Minerva's, 
and  required  softening.  It  is  not  easy  to  distinguish  the 
shades  of  the  various  colors  anciently  given  to  eyes ; 
the  blues  and  grays,  sky-blues,  sea-blues,  sea-gray, 
and  even  caf-grays.*  But  it  is  clear  that  the  expression 
is  everything.  The  poet  demanded  this  or  that  color, 
according  as  he  thought  it  favorable  to  the  expression 
of  acuteness,  majesty,  tenderness,  or  a  mixture  of  all. 
Black  eyes  were  most  lauded  ;  doubtless,  because  in  a 
southern  country  the  greatest  number  of  beloved  eyes 
must  be  of  that  color.  But  on  the  same  account  of 
the  predominance  of  black,  the  abstract  taste  was  in 
favor  of  lighter  eyes  and  f;\ir  complexions.  Hair  be- 
ing of  a  great  variety  of  tint,  the  poet  had  great  license 
in  wishing  or  feigning  on  that  point.     Many  a  head  of 

*  CtEsio  veniam  obvius  leoni.  Catullus.  See  glaucus  cmruleus,  &c. 
and  their  Greek  correspondents.  Xnpr,7r,);,  glad-looking,  is  also  rendered 
in  the  Latin,  blue-eyed:  and  yet  it  is  often  translated  by  ravus,  a  word 
which  at  one  time  is  made  to  signify  blue,  and  at  another  something  ap- 
proximating to  hazel.  C(Eshts,  in  like  manner,  appears  to  signify  both 
gray  and  blue,  and  a  tinge  of  green. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  215 

hair  was  exalted  into  gold,  that  gave  slight  color  for 
the  pretension ;  nor  is  it  to  be  doubted  that  auburn, 
and  red,  and  yellow,  and  sand-color,  and  brown  with 
the  least  surface  of  gold,  all  took  the  same  illustrious 
epithet  on  occasion.  With  regard  to  eyes,  the  an- 
cients insisted  much  on  one  point,  which  gave  rise  to 
many  happy  expressions.  This  was  a  certain  mix- 
ture of  pungancy  with  the  look  of  sweetness.  Some- 
times they  call  it  severity,  sometimes  sternness,  and 
even  acridity,  and  terror.  The  usual  word  was  gor- 
gon-looking.  Something  of  a  frown  was  implied, 
mixed  with'  a  radiant  earnestness.  This  was  com- 
monly spoken  of  men's  eyes.  Anacreon,  giving  direc- 
tions for  the  portrait  of  a  youth,  says — 

"  McXuv  Ojiiia  yopyov  earu), 
KcKcpaaiievov  yaXrtvrj. 

"  Dark  and  gorgon  be  his  eye, 
Tempered  with  hilarity." 

A  taste  of  it,  however,  was  sometimes  desired  in  the 
eyes  of  the  ladies.  Theagenes,  in  Heliodorus's  "  Ethi- 
opics,"  describing  his  mistress  Chariclea,  tells  us,  that 
even  when  a  child,  something  great,  and  with  a  divinity 
in  it,  shone  out  of  her  eyes,  and  encountered  his,  as  he 
examined  them,  with  a  mixture  of  the  gorgon  and  the 
alluring.*  Perhaps  the  best  word  for  translating^or- 
gon  would  be  fervent :  something  earnest,  fiery,  and 
pressing  onward.  Anacreon,  we  see,  with  his  usual 
exquisite  taste,  allays  the  fierceness  of  the  term  with 
the  participle  "  tempered."'  The  nice  point  is,  to  see 
that  the  terror  itself  be  not  terrible,  but  only  a  poig- 
nancy brought  in  to  assist  the  sweetness.  It  is  the 
salt  in  the  tart ;  the  subtle  sting  of  the  essence.     It  is 


♦  ' 


^thiop.'  Lib.  11,  apud  .Iiiiiiuni. 


216  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

to  the  eye  intellectual,  what  the  apple  of  the  eye  is  to 
the  eye  itself, — the  dark  part  of  it.  the  core,  the  inner- 
most look ;  the  concentration  and  burning-glass  of  the 
rays  of  love.  We  think,  however,  that  Anacreon  did 
better  than  Heliodorus,  when  he  avoided  attributing 
this  look  to  his  mistress,  and  confined  it  to  the  other 
sex.  He  tells  us,  that  she  had  a  look  of  Minerva  as 
well  as  Venus ;  but  it  was  Minerva  v/ithout  the  gor- 
gon.  There  was  sense  and  apprehensiveness,  but  no- 
thing to  alarm. 

Large  eyes  were  admired  in  Greece,  where  they 
still  prevail.  They  are  the  finest  of  all',  when  they 
have  the  internal  look ;  which  is  not  common.  The 
stag  or  antelope  eye  of  the  Orientals  is  beautiful  and 
lamping,  but  is  accused  of  looking  skittish  and  indif- 
ferent. "  The  epithet  of  stag-eyed,"  says  Lady  Wort- 
ley  Montague,  speaking  of  a  Turkish  love  song, "  pleases 
me  extremely ;  and  I  think  it  a  very  lively  image  of 
the  fire  and  indifference  in  his  mistress's  eyes."  We 
lose  in  depth  of  expression  when  we  go  to  inferior 
animals  for  comparisons  with  human  beauty.  Homer 
calls  Juno  ox-eyed ;  and  the  epithet  suits  well  with 
the  eyes  of  that  goddess,  because  she  may  be  supposed, 
with  all  her  beauty,  to  want  a  certain  humanity.  Her 
large  eyes  look  at  you  with  a  royal  indiflference.  Shaks- 
peare  has  kissed  them,  and  made  them  human.  Speak- 
ing of  violets,  he  describes  them  as  being — 

"  Sweeter  than  the  lids  of  Juno's  eyes." 

This  is  shutting  up  their  pride,  and  subjecting  them  to 
the  lips  of  love.  Large  eyes  may  become  more  touch- 
ing under  this  circumstance  than  any  others,  because 
of  the  field  which  the  large  lids  give  for  the  veins  to 
wander  in,  and  the  trembling  amplitude  of  the  ball  be- 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  217 

neatli.  Little  eyes  must  be  good-tempered  or  they  are 
ruined.  They  have  no  other  resource.  But  this  will 
beautify  them  enough.  They  are  made  for  laughing, 
and  should  do  their  duty.  In  Charles  the  Second's 
time,  it  was  the  fashion  to  have  sleepy,  half-shut  eyes, 
•sly  and  meretricious.  They  took  an  expression, 
beautiful  and  warrantable  on  occasion,  and  made  a 
commonplace  of  it,  and  a  vice.  So  little  do  "  men  of 
pleasure"  understand  the  business  from  which  they 
take  their  title.  A  good  warm-hearted  poet  shall  shed 
more  light  upon  voluptuousness  and  beauty  in  one 
verse  from  his  pen,  than  a  thousand  rakes  can  arrive 
at,  swimming  in  claret,  and  bound  on  as  many  voyages 
of  discovery. 

In  attending  to  the  hair  and  eyes,  we  have  forgotten 
the  eyebrows,  and  the  shape  of  the  head.  They  shall 
be  dispatched  before  we  come  to  the  lips ;  as  the  table 
is  cleared  before  the  dessert.  This  is  an  irreverent 
simile,  nor  do  we  like  it ;  though  the  pleasure  even  of 
eating  and  drinking,  to  those  who  enjoy  it  with  temper- 
ance, may  be  traced  beyond  the  palate.  The  utmost 
refinements  on  that  point  are,  we  allow,  wide  of  the 
mark  on  this.  The  idea  of  beauty,  however,  is  law- 
fully associated  with  that  of  cherries  and  peaches  ;  as 
Eve  set  forth  the  dessert  in  Paradise. 

Evi:HRovvd. — Eyebrows  used  to  obtain  more  applause 
than  they  do.  Shakespeare  seems  to  jest  upon  this 
eminence,  when  he  speaks  of  a  lover 

"  Sighing  like  furnace,  with  a  woful  ballad 
Made  to  his  mistress'  eyebrow." 

Marot  mentions  a  poem  on  an  eyebrow,  which  was  the 
vol,.  I.  10 


218  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

talk  of  the  court  of  Francis  the  Fh'st.*  The  taste  of 
the  Greeks  on  this  point  was  remarkable.  They 
admired  eyebrows  that  almost  met.  It  depends  upon 
the  character  of  the  rest  of  the  face.  Meeting  eye- 
brows may  give  a  sense  and  animation  to  looks  that 
might  otherwise  be  too  feminine.  They  have  certainly 
not  a  foolish  look.     Anacreon's  mistress  has  them  : — 

"  Taking  care  her  eyebrows  be 
Not  apart,  nor  mingled  neither, 
But  as  hers  are,  stol'n  together ; 
Met  by  stealth,  yet  leaving  too 
O'er  the  eyes  their  darkest  hue. 

In  the  Idyl  of  Theocritus  before  mentioned,  one  of  the 
speakers  values  himself  upon  the  effect  his  beauty  has 
had  on  a  girl  with  joined  eyebrows. 

"  K-tiji   ex  TO)  afTp;,)  avi/o<ppvi  Kiipa  c^Bi;  iSoiaa 

Tas  (JofiaXas  TraptXtvira,  Ka\ov  xaXov  r]jiti  edaaKev' 
Ou  fxzv  ovSc  Xoya)!/  EKpiQrjv  ano  tov  TTiKpov  avra, 
AXXa  KOTW  PXc'pas  Tav  ajiercpav  oijv  tipirov.  ' 

Passing  a  bower  last  evening  with  my  cows, 

A  girl  look'd  out, —  a  girl  with  meeting  brows. 

"  Beautiful !  beautiful !"  cried  she.     I  heard, 

But  went  on,  looking  down,  and  gave  her  not  a  word. 

This  taste  in  female  beauty  appears  to  have  been  con- 
fined to  the  ancients.  Boccaccio,  in  his  "  Ameto,"  the 
precursor  of  the  "  Decameron,"  where  he  gives  several 
pictures  of  beautiful  women,  speaks  more  than  once 
of  disjoined  eyebrows.f  Chaucer,  in  the  "  Court  of 
Love,"  is  equally  express  in  favor  of  "  a  due  distance." 
An  arched  eyebrovv^  was  always  in  request ;  but  we 
think  it  is  doubtful  whether  we  are  to  understand  that 

*  In  one  of  his  Epistles,  beginning — 

"  Nobles  esprits  de  France  poetiques." 
t  L' Ameto  di  Messer  Giovanni  Boccaccio,  pp.  31,32,  39.    Parma, 
1802. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  219 

the  eyebrows  were  always  desired  to  form  separate 
arches,  or  to  give  an  arched  character  to  the  brow 
considered  in  unison.  In  either  case  the  curve  should 
ba^very  deUcate.  A  straight  eyebrow  is  better  than  a 
very  arching  one,  which  has  a  look  of  wonder  and 
silliness.  To  have  it  immediately  over  the  eye,  is 
preferable,  for  the  same  reason,  to  its  being  too  high 
and  lifted.  The  Greeks  liked  eyes  leaning  upwards 
towards  each  other ;  which  indeed  is  a  rare  beauty, 
and  the  reverse  bf  the  animal  character.  If  the  brows 
over  these  took  a  similar  direction,  they  would  form 
an  arch  together.  Perhaps  a  sort  of  double  curve  was 
required,  the  particular  one  over  the  eye,  and  the 
general  one  in  the  look  altogether.*  But  these  are 
unnecessary  refinements.  Where  great  difference  of 
taste  is  allowed,  the  point  in  question  can  be  of  little 
consequence.  We  cannot  think,  however,  with  Ariosto, 
that  fair  locks  with  black  eyebrows  are  desirable. 
We  see,  by  an  article  in  an  Italian  catalogue,  that  the 
taste  provoked  a  discussion. f  It  is  to  be  found,  how- 
ever, in  "  Achilles  Tatius,"  and  in  the  poem  beginning 

"  Lydia,  bella  puella,  Candida," 

attributed  to  Gallus.  A  moderate  distinction  is  desir- 
able, especially  where  the  hair  is  very  light.  Hear 
Burns,  in  a  passage  full  of  life  and  sweetness, 

"  Sae  flaxen  were  her  ringlets. 

Her  eyebrows  of  a  darker  hue, 
Bewitcliingly  o'er-arching 
Twa  laughing  een  o'  bonny  blue." 

It  is  agreed  on  all  hands  tliat  a  female  eyebrow  ought 

*  See  the  "  Ameto,"  p.  32. 

t  Barrotti,  Gio.  Andrea;  Lc  Chiomc  Biondc  e  Ciglia  Nere  d'Alcina, 
Discorso  Aocademico.    Padova,  1746. 


220  CRITICISM    ON    FKMALE    BEAUTY. 

to  be  delicate,  and  nicely  pencilled.  Dante  says  of  his 
mistress's,  that  it  looked  as  if  it  was  painted. 

"  II  ciglio 
*  Pulito,  e  brun,  talche  dipinto  pare." 

Rime,  Lib.  V. 

The  eyebrow, 
Polished  and  dark,  as  though  the  brush  had  drawn  it. 

Brows  ought  to  be  calm  and  even. 

"  Upon  her  eyelids  many  graces  sat, 

Under  the  shadow  of  her  even  brows." 

Faery  Qiieeji. 

Eyelids  have  been^ientioned  before.  The  lashes  are 
best  when  they  are  dark,  long,  and  abundant  without 
tangling. 

Shape  of  Head  and  Face,  Ears,  Cheeks,  &c. — 
The  shape  of  the  head,  including  the  face,  is  handsome 
in  proportion  as  it  inclines  from  round  into  oval.  This 
should  particularly  appear,  when  the  face  is  looking 
down.  The  skull  should  be  like  a  noble  cover  to  a 
beautiful  goblet.  The  principal  breadth  is  at  the 
temples,  and  over  the  ears.  The  ears  ought  to  be 
small,  delicate,  and  compact.  We  have  fancied  that 
musical  people  have  fine  ears  in  that  sense,  as  well  as 
the  other.  But  the  internal  conformation  must  be  the 
main  thing  with  them.  The  same  epithets  of  small, 
delicate,  and  compact,  apply  to  the  jaw  ;  which  loses 
in  beauty,  in  proportion  as  it  is  large  and  angular. 
The  cheek  is  the  seat  of  great  beauty  and  sentiment. 
It  is  the  region  of  passive  and  habitual  softness. 
Gentle  acquiescence  is  there ;  modesty  is  there  ;  the 
lights  and  colors  of  passion  play  tenderly  in  and  out 
its  surface,  like  the  Aurora  of  the  northern  sky.     It 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALH    UEAUTY.  221 

has  been  seen  liovv  Anacreon  has  painted  a  cheek. 
Sir  Phihp  Sidney  has  touched  it  with  no  less  deUcacy, 
and  more  sentiment : — "  Her  cheeks  blushing,  and 
withal,  when  she  was  spoken  to,  a  little  smiling,  were 
like  roses  when  their  leaves  are  with  a  little  breath 
stirred." — "  Arcadia,"  Book  I.  Beautiful-cheeked  is  a 
favorite  epithet  with  Homer.  There  is  an  exquisite 
delicacy,  rarely  noticed,  in  the  transition  from  the 
cheek  to  the  neck,  just  under  the  ear.  Akenside  has 
observed  it ;  but  he  hurts  his  feeling,  as  usual,  with 
commonplace  epithets : — 

"  Hither  turn 
Thy  graceful  footsteps ;  hither,  gentle  maid, 
Incline  thy  poUsh'd  forehead ;  let  thy  eyes 
Effuse  the  mildness  of  their  azure  dawn ; 
And  may  the  fanning  breezes  waft  aside 
Thy  radiant  locks,  disclosing,  as  it  bends 
With  airy  softness  from  the  marble-neck, 
The  cheek  fair  blooming." 

Pleasures  of  Imagination. 

The  "  marble  neck"  is  too  violent  a  contrast ;  but  the 
picture  is  delicate. 

"  Effuse  the  mildness  of  their  azure  dawn" 

is  an  elegant  and  happy  verse. 

We  may  here  observe,  that  rakes  and  men  of  senti- 
ment appear  to  have  agreed  in  objecting  to  ornaments 
for  the  ears.  Ovid,  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  and,  we  think, 
Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  have  passages  against  ear- 
rings ;  but  we  cannot  refer  to  the  last. 

"  Vos  quoque  non  cans  aures  oncrate  lapillis, 
Quos  legit  in  viridi  decolor  Indus  aqua." 

Arlis  Amor.  Lib.  III. 
Load  not  your  cars  with  costly  jewelry, 
Which  the  swart  Indian  culls  from  his  green  sea. 

This,  to  be  sure,  might  be  construed  into  a  warning 


l\ 

222  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

against  the  abuse,  rather  than  the  use,  of  such  orna- 
ments ;  but  the  context  is  in  favor  of  the  latter  suppo- 
sition. The  poet  is  recommending  simpUcity,  and  ex- 
tolHng  the  age  he  Uves  in  for  being  sensible  enough  to 
dispense  with  show  and  finery.  The  passage  in  Sid- 
ney is  express,  and  is  a  pretty  conceit.  Drawing  a 
portrait  of  his  heroine,  and  coming  to  the  ear,  he  tells 
us,  that 

"  The  tip  no  jewel  needs  to  wear ; 
The  tip  is  jewel  to  the  ear."  l\ 

We  confess  that  when  we  see  a  handsome  ear  without 
an  ornament,  we  are  glad  it  is  not  there  ;  but  if  it  has 
an  ornament,  and  one  in  good  taste,  we  know  not  how 
to  wish  it  away.  There  is  an  elegance  in  the  dangling 
of  a  gem  suitable  to  the  complexion.  We  believe  the 
ear  is  better  without  it.  Akenside's  picture,  for  in- 
stance, would  be  spoiled  by  a  ring.  Furthermore,  it 
is  in  the  way  of  a  kiss. 

Nose. — The  nose  in  general  has  the  least  character 
of  any  of  the  features.  When  we  meet  with  a  very 
small  one.  we  only  wish  it  larger  ;  when  with  a  large 
one,  we  would  fain  request  it  to  be  smaller.  In  itself 
it  is  rarely  anything.  The  poets  have  been  puzzled  to 
know  what  to  do  with  it.  They  are  generally  con- 
tented with  describing  it  as  straight,  and  in  good  pro- 
portion. The  straight  nose,  quoth  Dante, — "  //  dritto 
naso."  "  Her  nose  directed  streight,"  saith  Chaucer. 
"  Her  nose  is  neither  too  long  nor  too  short,"  say  the 
"  Arabian  Nights."  Ovid  makes  no  mention  of  a  nose. 
Ariosto  says  of  Alcina's  (not  knowing  what  else  to 
say),  that  envy  could  not  find  fault  with  it.  Anacreon 
contrives  to  make  it  go  shares  with  the  cheek.  Boc- 
caccio, in  one  of  his  early  works,  the  "Ameto"  above- 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  223 

mentioned,  where  he  has  an  epithet  for  almost  every 
noun,  is  so  puzzled  what  to  say  of  a  nose,  that  he  calls 
it  odorante,  the  smelling  nose.  Fielding,  in  his  con- 
tempt for  so  unsentimental  a  part  of  the  visage,  does 
not  scruple  to  beat  Amelia's  nose  to  pieces,  by  acci- 
dent ;  in  order  to  show  how  contented  her  lover  can 
be,  when  the  surgeon  has  put  it  decently  to  rights. 
This  has  been  reckoned  a  hazardous  experiment.  Not 
that  a  lover,  if  he  is  worth  anything,  would  not  re- 
main a  lover  after  such  an  accident,  but  that  it  is  well 
to  have  a  member  uninjured,  which  has  so  little  char- 
acter to  support  its  adversity.  The  commentators 
have  a  curious  difficulty  with  a  line  in  Catullus.  They 
are  not  sure  whether  he  wrote 

"  Salve,  nee  nimio  puello  naso — 
Hail  damsel,  with  by  no  means  too  much  nose." 


or, 


"  Salve,  nee  minimo  puella  naso — 
Hail,  damsel,  with  by  no  means  nose  too  little." 


It  is  a  feature  generally  to  be  described  by  negatives. 
It  is  of  importance,  however,  to  the  rest  of  the  face. 
If  a  good  nose  will  do  little  for  a  countenance  other- 
wise poor,  a  bad  one  is  a  great  injury  to  the  best.  An 
indifferent  one  is  so  common  that  it  is  easily  tolerated. 
It  appears,  from  the  epithets  bestowed  upon  that  part 
of  the  face  by  the  poets  and  romance  writers,  that 
there  is  no  defect  more  universal  than  a  nose  a  little 
wry,  or  out  of  proportion.  The  reverse  is  desirable, 
accordingly.  A  nose  should  be  firmly,  yet  lightly  cut, 
delicate,  spirited,  harmonious  in  its  parts,  and  propor- 
tionate with  the  rest  of  the  features.  A  nose  merely 
well-drawn  and  proportioned,  can  be  very  insipid. 
Some  little  freedom  and  delicacy  is  required  to  give  it 


224  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

character.     The  character  which  most  becomes  it  is 
that  of  taste  and  apprehensiveness.     And  a  perfectly- 
elegant  face  has  a  nose  of  this  sort.     Dignity,  as  re- 
gards this  featm-e,  depends  upon  the  expression  of  the 
rest  of  the  face.     Thus  a  large  aquiline  nose  increases 
the  look  of  strength  in  a  strong  face,  and  of  weakness 
in  a  weak  one.     The  contrast, — the  want  of  balance,^ — 
is  too  great,  Junius  adduces  the  authority  of  the  sophist, 
Philostratus,  for  tetragonal  or  quadrangular  noses, — 
noses  like  those  of  statues  ;  that  is  to  say,  broad  and 
level  in  the  bridge,  with  distinct  angles  to  the  paral- 
lelogram.     These  are  better  for  men  than  women. 
The  genders  of  noses  are  more  distinct  than  those  of 
eyes  and  lips.     The  neuter  are  the  commonest.     A 
nose  a  little  aquiline  has  been  admired  in  some  women. 
Cyrus's  Aspasia  had  one,  according  to  iElian.     "  She 
had  very  large  eyes,"  quoth  he,  "  and  a  nose  somewhat 
aquiline."      ohyop  ds  »;•'  xm  emYQvnog*     The  less  the 
better.     It  trenches  upon  the  other  sex,  and  requires 
all  the  graces  of  Aspasia  to  carry  it  off.     Those,  in- 
deed, will  carry  off  anything.     There  are  many  hand- 
some and  even  charming  women  with  aquiline  noses ; 
but  they  are  charming  in  spite  of  them,  not  by  their 
assistance.     Painters  do  not  give  them  to  their  ideal 
beauties.      We  do  not  imagine  angels  with  aquiline 
noses.     Dignified  men  have  them.     Plato  calls  them 
royal.     Marie   Antoinette  was  not  the  worse  for  an 
aquiline  nose;  at  least  in  her  triumphant  days,  when 
she  swam  through  an  antechamber  like  a  vision  and 
swept  away  the  understanding  of  Mr.  Burke.     But  if 
a  royal  nose  has  anything  to  do  with  a  royal  will,  she 
would  have  been  the  better,  at  last,  for  one  of  a  less 
dominant  description.     A  Roman  nose  may  establish 

*  "  Var.  Hist."  Lib.  13,  Cap.  1, 


I 


CRlTICISAr    ON     IKMALIi    BEAUTY,  225 

a  tyranny  : — according  to  Marmontel,  a  little  turn-up 
nose  overthrew  one.  At  all  events,  it  is  more  femi- 
nine ;  and  La  Fontaine  was  of  Marmontel's  opinion. 
Writing  to  the  Duchess  of  Bouillon,  who  had  expressed 
a  fear  that  he  would  grow  tired  of  Chateau  Thierry, 
he  says, — 

"  Peut-on  s'ennuyer  en  des  lieux 
Honoris  par  les  pas,  eclaires  par  les  yeux 

D'une  aimable  et  vive  Princesse, 
A  pied  blanc  et  mignon,  t  brune  et  longue  tresse  1 
Nez  trousse,  c'est  un  charme  encor  selon  mon  sens, 

C'en  est  meme  un  des  plus  puissants. 
Pour  moi,  le  temps  d' aimer  est  passe,  je  I'avoue; 

Et  je  merite  qu'on  me  loue 

De  ce  libre  et  sincere  aveu, 
Dont  pourtant  le  public  se  souciera  tres  peu. 
Que  j'aime  ou  n'aime  pas,  c'est  pour  lui  meme  chose. 

Mais  s'il  arrive  que  mon  coeur 
Retourne  5, 1'avenir  dans  sa  premiere  erreur, 
Nez  aquilins  et  longs  n'en  scront  pas  la  cause." 

How  can  one  tire  in  solitudes  and  nooks, 
Graced  by  the  steps,  enlighten'd  by  the  looks, 

Of  the  most  piquant  of  Princesses, 
With  Uttle  darling  foot,  and  long  dark  tresses  1 

A  turn-up  nose,  too,  between  you  and  me, 

Has  something  that  attracts  me  mightily. 
My  loving  days,  I  must  confess,  are  over, 
A  fact  it  does  me  honor  to  discover ; 

Though,  I  suppose,  whetlier  I  love  or  not 

That  brute,  the  public,  will  not  care  a  jot : — 
The  dev'l  a  bit  will  their  hard  hearts  look  to  it. 

But  should  it  happen,  some  fine  day. 

That  anything  should  lead  mc  round  that  way, 
A  long  and  beaky  nose  will  certainly  not  do  it. 

•  10* 


CRITICISM  ON  FEMALE  BEAUTY. 


III. MOUTH,    CHIN,    TEETH,    BOSOM. 

Mouth  and  chin.— Mouth  the  part  of  the  face  the  least  able  to  conceal  tie 
expression  of  temper,  (^c. — Handsome  smiles  in  plain  faces. —  Teeth.— 
Dimples. — Neck  and  shoulders. — Perfection  of  shape. — Bosom.—  Cau- 
tion against  the  misconstruction  of  the  coarse-minded. 

Mouth  and  Chin. — The  mouth,  hke  the  eyes,  gives 
occasion  to  so  many  tender  thoughts,  and  is  so  apt  to 
lose  and  supersede  itself  in  the  affectionate  softness  of 
its  effect  upon  us,  that  the  first  impulse,  in  speaking  of 
it,  is  to  describe  it  by  a  sentiment  and  a  transport. 
Mr.  Sheridan  has  hit  this  very  happily — see  his  "  Ri- 
vals :"— 

"  Then,  Jack,  such  eyes !     Such  lips !     Eyes  so 

We  never  met  M^ith  a  passage  in  all  the  poets  that 
gave  us  a  livelier  and  softer  idea  of  this  charming 
feature,  than  a  stanza  in  a  homely  old  writer  of  our 
own  country.  He  is  relating  the  cruelty  of  Queen 
Eleanor  to  the  Fair  Rosamond  : — 

"  With  that  she  dash'd  her  on  the  Ups, 
So  dyed  double  red  :  ^ 

Hard  was  the  heart  that  gave  the  blow, 
Soft  were  those  lips  that  bled." 

Warner's  Albion's  England,  Book  viii.  chap.  41. 

Sir  John  Suckling,  in  his  taste  of  an  under  lip,  is  not 
to  be  surpassed  : — 


I 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  227 

"  Her  lips  were  red,  and  one  was  thin 
Compared  with  that  was  next  her  chin, 
Some  bee  had  stung  it  newly." 

The  upper  lip,  observe,  was  only  comparatively  thin. 
Thin  lips  become  none  but  shrews  or  niggards.  A 
rosiness  beyond  that  of  the  cheeks,  and  a  good-tem 
pered  sufficiency  and  plumpness,  are  the  indispensable 
requisites  of  a  good  mouth.  Chaucer,  a  great  judge, 
is  very  peremptory  in  this  matter : — 

"  With  pregnant  lippfes,  thick  to  kiss  percase ; 
For  lippes  thin,  not  fat,  but  ever  lean, 
They  serve  of  naught ;  they  be  not  worth  a  bean ; 
For  if  the  base  be  full,  there  is  delight." 

The  Court  of  Love. 

For  the  consolation,  however,  of  those  who  have 
thin  lips,  and  are  not  shrews  or  niggards,  we  must 
give  it  here  as  our  opinion,  founded  on  what  we  have 
oUgerved,  that  lips  become  more  or  less  contracted,  in 
the  course  of  years,  in  proportion  as  they  are  accus- 
tomed to  express  good-humor  and  genei'osity,  or  peev- 
ishness and  a  contracted  mind.  Remark  the  effect 
which  a  moment  of  ill-temper  or  grudgingness  has 
upon  the  lips,  and  judge  what  may  be  expected  from 
an  habitual  series  of  such  moments.  Remark  the  re- 
verse, and  make  a  similar  judgment.  The  mouth  is 
the  frankest  part  of  the  face.  It  can  the  least  conceal 
the  feelings.  We  can  hide  neither  ill-temper  with  it 
nor  good.  We  may  affect  what  we  please  ;  but  affec- 
tation will  not  help  us.  In  a  wrong  cause,  it  will  only 
make  our  observers  resent  the  endeavor  to  impose 
upon  them.  The  mouth  is  the  seat  of  one  class  of 
emotions,  as  the  eyes  are  of  another  ;  or  rather,  it  ex- 
presses the  same  emotions  but  in  greater  detail,  and 
with  a  more  irrepressible  tendency  to  mobility.     It  is 


228  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

the  region  of  smiles  and  dimples,  of  a  trembling  ten- 
derness, of  sharp  sorrow,  of  a  full  and  breathing  joy, 
of  candor,  of  reserve,  of  a  carking  care,  of  a  liberal 
sympathy.  The  mouth,  out  of  its  many  sensibilities, 
may  be  fancied  throwing  up  one  great  expression  into 
the  eyes ;  as  many  lights  in  a  city  reflect  a  broad  lus- 
tre into  the  heavens.  On  the  other  hand,  the  eyes 
may  be  supposed  the  chief  movers,  influencing  the 
smaller  details  of  their  companion,  as  heaven  influences 
earth.  The  first  cause  in  both  is  internal  and  deep- 
seated. 

The  more  we  consider  beauty,  the  more  we  recog- 
nize its  dependence  on  sentiment.  The  handsomest 
mouth,  without  expression,  is  no  better  than  a  mouth 
in  a  drawing-book.  An  ordinary  one,  on  the  other 
hand,  with  a  great  deal  of  expression,  shall  become 
charming.  One  of  the  handsomest  smiles  we  ever 
saw  in  a  man,  was  that  of  a  celebrated  statesman  who 
is  reckoned  plain.  How  handsome  Mrs.  Jordan  wos 
when  she  laughed ;  who,  nevertheless,  was  not  a 
beauty.  If  we  only  imagine  a  laugh  full  of  kindness 
and  enjoyment,  or  a  "  little  giddy  laugh,"  as  Marot 
calls  it, — un  petit  ris  foldtre, — we  imagine  the  mouth 
handsome  as  a  matter  of  course  ;  at  any  rate,  for  the 
time.  The  material  obeys  the  spiritual.  Anacreon 
beautifully  describes  a  lip  as  "  a  lip  like  Persuasion's," 
and  says  it  calls  upon  us  to  kiss  it.  "  Her  lips,"  says 
Sir  Philip  Sidney,  "  though  they  were  kept  close  with 
modest  silence,  yet  with  a  pretty  kind  of  natural  swel- 
ling, they  seemed  to  invite  the  guests  that  looked  on 
them." — Arcadia,  Book  I. 

Let  me  quote  another  passage  from  that  noble  ro- 
mance, which  was  written  to  fill  a  woman's  mind  with 
all  beautiful  thoughts,  and  which  we  never  met  with 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  229 

a  woman  that  did  not  like,  notwithstanding  its  faults, 
and  in  spite  of  the  critics.  ''  Her  tears  came  dropping 
down  hke  rain  in  sunshine  ;  and  she  not  taking  heed 
to  wipe  the  tears,  they  hung  upon  her  cheeks  and  Ups, 
as  upon  cherries,  which  the  dropping  tree  bedeweth." 
— Book  the  Third.  Nothing  can  be  more  fresh  and 
elegant  than  this  picture. 

A  mouth  should  be  of  good  natural  dimensions,  as 
well  as  plump  in  the  lips.  When  the  ancients,  among 
their  beauties,  make  mention  of  small  mouths  and  lips, 
they  mean  small  only  as  opposed  to  an  excess  the 
other  way  ;  a  fault  very  common  in  the  south.  The 
sayings  in  favor  of  small  mouths,  which  have  been  the 
ruin  of  so  many  pretty  looks,  are  very  absurd.  If 
there  must  be  an  excess  either  way,  it  had  better  be 
the  liberal  one.  A  petty,  pursed-up  mouth  is  fit  for 
nothing  but  to  be  left  to  its  self-complacency.  Large 
mouths  are  oftener  found  in  union  with  generous  dis- 
positions, than  very  small  ones.  Beauty  should  have 
neither ;  but  a  reasonable  look  of  openness  and  deli- 
cacy. It  is  an  elegance  in  lips,"  when,  instead  of  ma- 
king sharp  angles  at  the  corner  of  the  mouth,  they  re- 
tain a  certain  breadth  to  the  very  verge,  and  show 
the  I'ed.  Tiie  corner  then  looks  painted  with  a  free 
and  liberal  pencil. 

Beautiful  teeth  are  of  a  moderate  size,  even,  and 
white,  nf)t  a  dead  white,  like  fish-bones,  which  has 
something  ghastly  in  it,  but  ivory  or  pearly  white  with 
an  enamel.  Bad  teeth  in  a  handsome  mouth  present 
a  contradiction,  which  is  sometimes  extremely  to  be 
pitied ;  for  a  weak  or  feverish  state  of  body  may  oc- 
casion them.  Teeth,  not  kept  as  clean  as  possible, 
are  unpardonable.  Ariosto  has  a  celebrated  stanza 
upon  a  mouth  : — 


230  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

"  Sotto  quel  sta,  quasi  fra  due  vallette, 
La  bocca,  sparsa  di  natio  cinabro : 
Quivi  due  filze  son  di  perle  elette, 
Che  chiude  ed  apre  un  bello  e  dolce  labro ; 
Q.uindi  escon  le  cortesi  parolette 
Da  render  molle  ogni  cor  rozzo  e  scabro ; 
Q,uivi  si  forma  quel  soave  rise, 
Ch'apre  a  sua  posta  in  terra  il  paradise." 

Orlan.  For.  Canto  7. 

Next,  as  between  two  little  vales  appears 
The  mouth,  where  spices  and  vermilion  keep : 
There  lurk  the  pearls,  richer  than  sultan  wears, 
Now  casketed,  now  shown,  by  a  sweet  lip  : 
Thence  issue  the  soft  words  and  courteous  prayers, 
Enough  to  make  a  churl  for  sweetness  weep : 
And  there  the  smile  taketh  its  rosy  rise. 
That  opens  upon  earth  a  paradise. 

To  the  mouth  belong  not  only  its  own  dimples,  but 
those  of  the  cheek  : — 

"  Le  pozzette 

Che  forma  un  dolce  rise  in  bello  guancia." 

Tasso. 
"  The  delicate  wells 
Which  a  sweet  smik  forms  in  a  lovely  cheek." 

The  chin,  to  be  perfect,  should  be  round  and  del- 
icate, neither  advancing  nor  retreating  too  much.  If 
it  exceed  either  way,  the  latter  defect  is  on  the  side 
of  gentleness.  The  former  anticipates  old  age.  A 
rounded  and  gentle  prominence  is  both  spirited  and 
beautiful ;  and  is  eminently  Grecian.  It  is  an  elegant 
countenance  (affectation  of  course  apart),  where  the 
forehead  and  eyes  have  an  over-looking  aspect,  while 
the  mouth  is  delicately  full  and  dimpled,  and  the  chin 
supports  it  like  a  cushion  leaning  a  little  upward.  A 
dimple  in  the  chin  is  almost  in  variably'  demanded  by 
the  poets,  and  has  a  character  of  grace  and  tenderness. 

Neck  and  Shoulders. — The  shoulders  in  a  female 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY,  231 

ought  to  be  delicately  plump,  even,  and  falling  without 
suddenness.  Broad  shoulders  are  admired  by  many. 
It  is  difficult  not  to  like  them  when  handsomely  turned. 
It  seems  as  if ''the  more  of  a  good  thing  the  better." 
At  all  events,  an  excess  that  way  may  divide  opinion, 
while  of  the  deformity  of  pinched  and  mean-looking 
shoulders  there  can  be  no  doubt.  A  good-tempered 
woman,  of  the  order  yclept  buxom,  not  only  warrants 
a  pair  of  expansive  shoulders,  but  bespeaks  our  appro- 
bation of  them.  Nevertheless  they  are  undoubtedly  a 
beauty  rather  on  the  masculine  than  feminine  side. 
They  belong  to  manly  strength.  Achilles  had  them. 
Milton  gives  them  to  Adam.     His 

"  Hyacintliine  locks 

Round  from  his  parted  forelock  manly  hung 
Clustering  ;  but  not  beneath  his  shoulders  broad." 

Fielding  takes  care  to  give  all  his  heroes  huge  calves 
and  Herculean  shoulders, — ^graces,  by  the  way,  con- 
spicuous in  himself.  Female  shoulders  ought  rather 
to  convey  a  sentiment  of  the  gentle  and  acquiescent. 
They  should  lean  under  those  of  the  other  sex,  as  under 
a  protecting  shade.  Looking  at  the  male  and  female 
figure  with  the  eye  of  a  sculptor,  our  first  impression 
with  regard  to  the  one  should  be,  that  it  is  the  figure 
of  a  noble  creature,  prompt  for  action",  and  with  shoul- 
ders full  of  power; — with  regard  to  the  other,  that  it  is 
that  of  a  gentle  creature,  made  to  be  beloved,  and 
neither  active  nor  powerful,  but  fruitful: — the  mould 
of  humanity.  Her  greatest  breadth  ought  not  to  ap- 
pear to  be  at  the  shoulders.  The  figure  should  resem- 
ble the  pear  on  the  tree, — 

"  Winding  gently  to  the  waist." 

Of  these  matters,  and  of  the  bosom,  it  is  difficult  to 


232  CRITICISM    ON     FEMAI.K    BKAUTV. 

speak :  but  Honi  soit  qui  mal  y'pense.  This  essay  is 
written  neither  for  the  prudish  nor  the  indeHcate ;  but 
for  those  who  have  a  genuine  love  of  the  beautiful,  and 
can  afford  to  hear  of  it.  It  is  not  the  poets  and  other 
indulgers  in  a  hvely  sense  of  the  beautiful  that  are  de- 
ficient in  a  respect  for  it ;  but  they  who  suppose  that 
every  lively  expression  must  of  necessity  contain  a 
feeling  of  the  gross  and  impertinent.  We  do  not  re- 
gard these  graces,  as  they  pass  in  succession  before  us, 
with  the  coarse  and  cunning  eye  of  a  rake  at  a  tavern- 
door.  We  will  venture  to  say  that  we  are  too  affec- 
tionate and  even  voluptuous  for  such  a  taste ;  and  that 
the  real  homage  we  pay  the  sex  deserves  the  very  best 
construction  of  the  best  people,  and  will  have  it. — 

"  Fathers  and  husbands,  I  do  claim  a  right 
In  all  that  is  called  lovely.     Take  my  sight 
Sooner  than  my  affection  from  the  fair. 
No  face,  no  hand,  proportion,  line,  or  air 
Of  Beauty,  but  the  muse  hath  interest  in." 

Ben  Jons  on. 

A  bosom  is  most  beautiful  when  it  presents  none  of 
the  extremes  which  different  tastes  have  demanded 
for  it.  Its  only  excess  should  be  that  of  health.  This 
is  not  too  likely  to  occur  in  a  polite  state  of  society. 
Modern  customs  and  manners  too  often  leave  to  the 
imagination  the  task  of  furnishing  out  the  proper  quan- 
tity of  beauty,  where  it  might  have  existed  in  perfec- 
tion. And  a  tender  imagination  will  do  so.  The  only 
final  ruin  of  a  bosom  in  an  affectionate  eye,  is  the  want 
of  a  good  heart.  Nor  shall  the  poor  beauty  which  the 
mother  has  retained  by  dint  of  being  no  mother,  be 
lovely  as  the  ruin.  O  Sentiment !  Beauty  is  but  the 
outward  and  visible  sign  of  thee  ;  and  not  always  there, 
where  thou  art  most.     Thou  canst  supply  her  place 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  233 

when  she  is  gone.  Thou  canst  j-emain,  and  still  make 
an  eye  sweet  to  look  into ;  a  bosom  beautiful  to  rest 
the  heart  on. 

A  favorite  epithet  with  the  Greek  poets,  lyrical,  epic, 
and  dramatic,  is  deep-bosomed.  A  Greek  meant  to  say, 
that  he  admired  a  chest  truly  feminine.  It  is  to  be 
concluded,  that  he  also  demanded  one  left  to  its  nat- 
ural state,  as  it  appeared  among  the  healthiest  and 
loveliest  of  his  countrywomen ;  neither  compressed, 
as  it  was  by  the  fine  ladies ;  nor  divided  and  divorced 
in  that  excessive  manner,  which  some  have  accounted 
beautiful.*  It  was  certainly  nothing  contradictory  to 
grace  and  activity  which  he  demanded. 

"  Crown  me,  then,  I'll  play  the  lyre, 
Bacchus,  underneath  thy  shade : 
Heap  me,  heap  me,  higher  and  higher ; 
And  I'll  lead  a  dance  of  fire, 
With  a  dark  deep-bosom'd  maid." 

Anacreon,  Ode  V. 

Rosy-hosom'd  is  another  Greek  epithet.  Milton 
speaks  in  "  Comus"  of 

•'  The  Graces  and  the  rosy-bosom'd  Hours." 

Virgil  says  of  Venus, 

She  said. 

And  turn'd,  refulgent,  with  a  rosy  neck.* 

"  O'er  her  warm  nrok  and  risin^r  bosom  move 
Tlie  bloom  of  young  Desire,  and  purple  light  of  Love;" 

Gray. 

which  is  a  couplet  made  u])  of  this  passage  in  Vir- 
gil and  another.  Virgil  follows  the  Greeks,  and  the 
Greeks  followed  nature.  All  this  bloom  and  rosy  re- 
fulgence, which  are  phrases  of  the  poets,  mean  nothing 

*  See  an  epigram  in  the  Greek  Anthology,  beginning 
■(•  "  Dixit;  ct  avertcns,  rosea  cervice  refulsit." 


234  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

more  than  that  healthy  color  which  aj^ears  in  the  finest 
skin.  We  shall  see  more  of  it  when  we  come  to  speak 
of  Hands  and  Arms. 

A  writer  in  the  Anthology  makes  use  of  the  pretty 
epithet,  "  vernal-hosorrH d."*  The  most  delicate  paint- 
ing of  a  vernal  bosom  is  in  Spenser : — 

"  And  in  her  hand  a  sharp  boar-spear  she  held, 
And  at  her  back  a  bow  and  quiver  gay 
Stuft  with  steel-headed  darts,  wherewith  she  quell'd 
The  salvage  beasts  in  her  victorious  play, 
Knit  with  a  golden  bauldric,  which  forelay 
Athwart  her  snowy  breast,  and  did  divide 
Her  dainty  paps ;  which,  like  young  fruit  in  May, 
Now  little  gan  to  swell ;  and  being  tied. 
Through  their  thin  weeds  their  places  only  signified." 

Dryden  copies  after  Spenser,  but  not  with  such  re- 
finement. His  passage,  however,  is  so  beautiful,  and 
has  a  gentleness  and  movement  so  much  to  the  pur- 
pose, that  I  cannot  resist  the  pleasure  of  quoting  it. 
He  is  describing  Boccaccio's  heroine  in  the  story  of 
"  Cymon  and  Iphigenia :" — 

"  By  chance  conducted,  or  by  tliirst  constrain'd. 
The  deep  recesses  of  the  grove  he  gain'd  ; 
Where,  in  a  plain  defended  by  the  wood, 
Crept  through  the  matted  grass  a  crystal  flood. 
By  which  an  alabaster  fountain  stood : 
And  on  the  margin  of  the  fount  was  laid, 
Attended  by  her  slaves,  a  sleeping  maid ; 
Like  Dian  and  her  nymphs,  when,  tired  with  sport, 
To  rest  by  cool  Eurotas  they  resort, 
The  dame  herself  the  goddess  well  express'd 
Not  more  distinguish'd  by  her  purple  vest, 
Than  by  the  charming  features  of  her  face, 
And  e'en  in  slumber  a  superior  grace. 
Her  comely  limbs  composed  with  decent  care, 
Her  body  shaded  with  a  slight  cymar. 
Her  bosom  to  the  view  was  only  bare ; 

*    Eiapo^a(7do;. 


\ 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  235 

Where  two  beginning  paps  were  scarcely  spied, 
For  yet  their  places  were  but  signified. 
The  fanning  wind  upon  her  bosom  blows ;    • 
To  meet  the  fanning  wind  the  bosom  rose  ; 
The  fanning  wind,  and  purUng  streams,  continue  her  repose." 

This  beautiful  conclusion',  with  its  repetitions,  its  play 
to  and  fro,  and  the  long  continuous  line  with  which  it 
terminates,  is  delightfully  soft  and  characteristic.  The 
beauty  of  the  sleeper  and  of  the  landscape  mingle  with 
one  another.  The  wind  and  the  bosom  are  gentle 
challengers. 
".  Each  softer  seems  than  each,  and  each  than  each  seems  smoother," 

Even  the  turn  of  Dryden's  last  triplet  is  imitated  from 
Spenser. — See  the  divine  passage  of  the  concert  in 
the  "  Bower  of  Bliss,  Faery  Queen,"  book  ii.  canto  12, 
stanza  71.  "The  sage  and  serious  Spenser,"  as  Mil- 
ton called  him,  is  a  great  master  of  the  beautiful  in  all 
its  bi'tinches.  He  also  knew,  as  well  as  any  poet,  how 
to  help  himself  to  beauty  out  of  others.  The  former 
passage  imitated  by  Dryden  was,  perhaps,  suggested 
by  one  in  Boccaccio.*  The  simile  of  "  young  fruit  in 
May"  is  from  Ariosto. 

"  Bianca  neve  c  il  bel  collo,  e'  1  petto  latte ; 
II  collo  tondo,  il  petto  colmo  e  largo  : 
Due  pome  acerbc,  e  pur  d'avorio  fattc, 
Vengono  c  van,  come  onda  al  primo  margo, 
Quando  piaccvolc  aura  il  mar  combatte." 

Orlan.  Fur.  Canto  7. 

Her  bosom  is  like  milk,  her  neck  like  snow ; 
A  rounded  neck  ;  a  bo.som,  where  you  see 
Two  crisp  young  ivory  apples  come  and  go, 
*•  Like  waves  that  on  the  shore  beat  tenderly, 
when  a  sweet  air  is  ruffling  to  and  fro. 

But  Ariosto  lias  been  also  to  Boccaccio,  and  he  to 
Theocritus ;  in  whom,  we  believe,  this  fruitful  meta- 

*  "  L'Ameto,"  as  above,  p.  31,  33. 


236  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

phor  is  first  to  be  met  with.  It  is  very  suitable  to  his 
shepherds,  Uving  among  the  bowers  of  Sicily. — See 
"Idyl"  xxvii.'v.  49.  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  repeated 
it  in  the  "  Arcadia."  But  poets  in  all  ages  have  drawn 
similar  metaphors  from  the  gardens.  "Solomon's 
Song"  abounds  with. them.  There  is  a  hidden  anal- 
ogy, more  than  poetical,  among  all  the  beauties  of 
nature. 

We  quit  this  tender  ground,  prepared  to  think  very 
ill  of  any  person  who  thinks  we  have  said  too  much 
of  it.  Its  beauty  would  not  allow  us  to  say  less  ;  but 
not  the  less  do  we  "  with  reverence  deem"  of  those 
resting-places  for  the  head  of  love  and  sorrow — 
"  Those  dainties  made  to  stir  an  infant's  cries." 


CRITICISM   ON   FEMALE   BEAUTY. 

IV. HAND,  ARM,  WALK,  VOICE. 

Hand  and  arm. — Italian  epithet  "  Morblda." — Figure. — Carriage,  (f«c. 

— Perils  of  fashion. —  Vice  of  tight-lacing — Hips. — Legs  and  feet. — 
Walk. — Carriage  of  Roman  and  Italian  women. —  That  of  English 
preferred. —  Voice  ditto. — Reason  why  the  most  beautiful  women  are  in 

general,  not  the  most  charming. 

Hand  and  Arm. — A  beautiful  arm  is  of  a  round 
and  flowing  outline,  and  gently  tapering ;  the  hand 
long,  delicate,  and  well  turned,  with  taper  fingers, 
and  a  certain  buoyancy  and  turn  upwards  in  their 
very  curvature  and  repose.  We  fear  this  is  not  well 
expressed.  We  mean,  that  when  the  hand  is  at  rest 
on  its  palm,  the  wrist  a  little  bent,  and  the  other  part 
of  it,  with  the  fingers,  stretching  and  dipping  for- 
wards with  the  various  undulations  of  the  joints,  it 
ought,  however  plump  and  in  good  condition,  to  retain 
a  look  of  prom[)litU(le  and  lightness.  The  spirit  of  the 
guitar  ought  to  be  in  it ;  of  the  harp  and  the  piano- 
forte, of  the  performance  of  all  elegant  works,  even 
to  the  dairy  of  Eve,  who  "tempered  dulcet  creams." 
See  a  pictui-e  in  Spenser,  not  to  be  surpassed  by  any 
Italian  pencil : — 

"  In  her  left  hand  a  cu[)  of  gold  she  h(l<l, 
And  with  her  ri;j;ht  the,  riper  fruit  did  reach, 
Whose  sappy  li(|iior,  that  with  fulness  sweli'd 


238  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

Into  her  cup  she  scruzed  with  dainty  breach 

Of  her  fine  fingers,  without  foul  impeach, 

That  so  fair  wine-press  made  the  wine  more  sweet." 

Book  ii.  canto  12. 

It  is  sometimes  thought  that  hands  and  arms  cannot 
be  too  white.  A  genuine  white  is  very  beautiful,  and 
is  requisite  to  give  them  perfection ;  but  shape  and 
spirit  are  the  first  things  in  all  beauty.  Complexion 
follows.  A  hand  and  arm  may  be  beautiful,  without 
being  excessively  fair ;  they  may  also  be  very  fair 
and  not  at  all  beautiful.  Above  all,  a  sickly  white  is 
not  to  be  admired,  whatever  may  be  thought  of  it  by 
the  sallow  Italian,  who  praises  a  white  hand  for  being 
morbid.  We  believe,  however,  he  means  nothing 
more  than  a  contradiction  to  his  yellow.  He  would 
have  his  mistress's  complexion  unspoilt  by  oil  and 
macaroni.  These  excessive  terms,  as  we  have  before 
noticed,  are  not  to  be  taken  to  the  letter.  A  sick 
hand  has  its  merits,  if  it  be  an  honest  one.  It  may 
excite  a  feeling  beyond  beauty.  But  sickliness  is  not 
beauty.  In  the  whitest  skin  there  ought  to  be  a  look 
of  health.*  The  nails  of  the  fingers  ought  to  be 
tinged  with  red.  When  the  Greeks  spoke  of  the 
rosy-fingered  Morn,  it  was  not  a  mere  metaphor,  al- 
luding to  the  ruddiness  of  the  time  of  day.  They  re- 
ferred also  to  the  human  image.  The  metaphor  was 
founded  in  Nature,  whether  the  goddess's  office  or 
person  was  to  be  considered. 

Wherever  a  genuine  and  lasting  beauty  is  desired, 
the  blood  must  be  circulated. 

Figure,  Carriage,  &c. — The  beauty  of  the  female 

*  "  Candidis  tamen   manibus  rosei  ruboris  aliquid  suffundatur." — 
Junius,  Cap.  it.  sect.  26. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  239 

figure  consists  in  being  gently  serpentine.  Modesty 
and  luxuriance,  fulness  and  buoyancy ;  a  rising,  as  if 
to  meet ;  a  falling,  as  if  to  retire ;  spirit,  softness,  ap- 
prehensiveness,  self-possession,  a  claim  on  protection, 
a  superiority  to  insult,  a  sparkling  something  enshrined 
in  gentle  proportions  and  harmonious  movement, 
should  all  be  found  in  that  charming  mixture  of  the 
spiritual  and  material.  Mind  and  body  are  not  to 
be  separated,  where  real  beauty  exists.  Should  there 
be  no  great  intellect,  there  will  be  an  intellectual  in- 
stinct, a  grace,  an  address,  a  naturally  wise  amiable- 
ness.  Should  intellect  unite  with  these,  there  is  no- 
thing upon  earth  so  powerful,  except  the  spirit  whom 
it  shall  call  master. 

Beauty  too  often  sacrifices  to  fashion.  The  spirit 
of  fashion  is  not  the  beautiful,  but  the  wilful ;  not  the 
graceful  but  the  fantastic ;  not  the  superior  in  the  ab- 
stract, but  the  superior  in  the  worst  of  all  concretes, 
the  vulgar.  It  is  the  vulgarity  that  can  afford  to  shift 
and  vary  itself,  opposed  to  the  vulgarity  that  longs  to 
do  so,  but  cannot.  The  high  point  of  taste  and  ele- 
gance is  to  be  sought  for,  not  in  the  most  fashionable 
circles,  but  in  the  best-bred,  and  such  as  can  dispense 
with  the  eternal  necessity  of  never  being  the  same 
thing.  Beauty  there,  both  moral  and  personal,  will  do 
all  it  can  to  resist  the  envy  of  those  who  would  deface, 
in  order  to  supersede  it.  The  highest  dressers,  the 
highest  face-painters,  are  not  the  loveliest  women,  but 
such  as  have  lost  their  loveliness,  or  never  had  any. 
The  others  know  the  value  of  their  natural  appearance 
too  well.  It  is  these  that  inspire  the  mantua-maker  or 
milliner  with  some  good  thought.  The  herd  of  fashion 
take  it  up,  and  spoil  it.  A  hundred  years  ago  it  was 
the  fashion  for  ladies  to  have  long  waists  like  a  funnel. 


240  CRITICISM    ox    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

Who  would  suppose  that  this  originated  in  a  natural 
and  even  rustic  taste  ?  And  yet  the  stomachers  of 
that  time  were  only  caricatures  of  the  bodice  of  a 
country  beauty.  Some  handsome  women  brought  the 
original  to  town  ;  fashion  proceeded  to  render  it  ugly 
and  extravagant ;  and  posterity  laughs  at  the  ridicu- 
lous portraits  of  its  grandmothers.  The  poet  might 
have  addressed  a  beauty  forced  into  this  fashion,  as  he 
did  his  heroine  in  the  celebrated  lines  : 

"  No  longer  shall  the  bodice,  aptly  laced, 
From  thy  full  bosom  to  thy  slender  waist, 
•       That  air  and  harmony  of  shape  express, 
Fine  by  degrees,  and  beautifully  less." 

Prior's  Henry  and  Emma. 

No :  it  was 

"  Gaunt  all  at  once,  and  hideously  little." 

It  was  like  a  pottle  of  strawberries,  instead  of  a  human 
waist.  Some  years  ago  it  was  the  fashion  for  a  lady 
to' look  like  an  hour-glass,  or  a  huge  insect,  or  anything 
else  cut  in  two,  and  bolstered  out  at  head  and  feet.  A 
fashion  that  gracefully  shows  the  figure  is  one  thing : 
a  fashion  that  totally  conceals  it,  may  have  its  merits ; 
but  voluntarily  to  accept  puffed  shoulders  in  lieu  of 
good  ones,  and  a  pinch  in  the  ribs  for  a  body  like  that 
of  Venus  de  Medici,  is  what  no  woman  of  taste  should 
put  up  with  who  can  avoid  it.  They  are  taking  her 
in.  The  levelling  rogues  know  what  they  are  about, 
and  are  for  rendering  their  crooked  backs  and  unsatis- 
factory waists  indistinguishable.  If  the  levelling 
stopped  here,  it  might  be  pardonable.  Fair  play  is  a 
jewel  that  one  wishes  to  see  everybody  enriched  by. 
But  as  fashion  is  too  often  at  variance  with  beauty,  it 
is  also  at  variance  with  health.     The  more  a  woman 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  241 

sacrifices  of  the  one,  the  more  she  loses  of  the  other. 
Thick  legs  are  the  least  result  of  these  little  waists. 
Bad  lungs,  bad  livers,  bad  complexions,  deaths,  melan- 
choly, and  worse  than  all,  rickety  and  melancholy 
children,  are  the  consequences  of  the  tricks  that  fashion 
plays  with  the  human  body. 

It  is  a  truism  to  say  that  a  waist  should  be  neither 
pinched  in  nor  shapeless,  neither  too  sudden  nor  too 
shelving,  &c.,  but  a  natural,  unsophisticated  waist,  prop- 
erly bending  when  at  rest,  properly  falling  in  when  the 
person  is  in  motion.  But  truisms  are  sometimes  as 
necessary  to  repeat  in  writing,  as  to  abide  by  in  paint- 
ing or  sculpture.  The  worst  of  it  is,  they  are  not  al- 
ways allowed  to  be  spoken  of.  For  instance,  there  is 
a  truism  called  a  hip.  It  is  surely  a  very  modest  and 
respectable  joint,  and  of  great  use  to  the  rising  genera- 
tion. A  sculptor  could  no  more  omit  it  in  a  perfect 
figure,  than  he  could  omit  a  leg  or  an  arm.  And  yet, 
by  some  very  delicate  train  of  reasoning,  known  only 
to  the  double-refioed,  not  merely  the  word,  but  the 
thing,  was  suppressed  about  twenty  years  back.  The 
word  vanished  :  the  joint  was  put  under  the  most 
painful  restrictions  ;  it  seemed  as  if  there  was  a  Society 
for  the  Suppression  of  Hips.  The  fashion  did  not  last, 
or  there  is  no  knowing  what  would  have  become  ol 
us.  We  should  have  been  the  most  melancholy,  hip- 
ped, unhipped  generation,  that  ever  walked  without 
our  proper  dimensions.  IMoore's  Almanac  would  have 
contained  new  wonders  for  us.  Finally,  we  should 
have  gone  out,  have  wasted,  faded,  old  maided-and- 
bachelored  ourselves  away,  grown 

"  Fine  by  degrees  and  beautifully  less," 

till  a  Dutch  jury  (the  only  survivors)  brought  in  the 

11 


242  CRITICISM    ON    FExMALE    BEAUTY. 

verdict  of  the  polite  world, — Died  for  want  of  care  in 
the  mother.  At  present  a  writer  may  speak  of  hips, 
and  live.  Nay,  the  fancies  of  the  men  seem  to  have 
been  so  wrought  upon  by  the  recollection  of  those 
threatening  times,  that  they  have  amplified  into  hips 
themselves,  and  even  grown  pigeon-breasted.  Such 
are  the  melancholy  consequences  of  violating  the  laws 
of  Nature. 

A  true  female  figure,  then,  is  falling  and  not  too  broad 
in  the  shoulders ;  moderate,  yet  inclining  to  fulness 
rather  than  deficiency,  in  the  bosom ;  gently  tapering, 
and  without  violence  of  any  sort,  in  the  waist ;  nat- 
urally curving  again  in  those  never-to-be-without- 
apology-alluded-to  hips ;  and,  finally,  her  buoyant  light- 
ness should  be  supported  upon  natural  legs,  not  at  all 
like  a  man's ;  and  upon  feet,  which,  though  little,  are 
able  to  support  all  the  rest. 

Ariosto  has  described  a  foot, — 

"II  breve,  asciutto,  e  ritondetto  piede." 
"  The  short,  and  neat,  and  little  rounded  foot." 

The  shortness,  however,  is  not  to  be  made  by  dint  of 
shoes.  It  must  be  natural.  It  must  also  be  not  too 
short.  It  should  be  short  and  delicate,  compared  with 
that  of  the  other  sex ;  but  sufficient  for  all  purposes  of 
walking  and  running,  and  dancing,  and  dispensing  with 
tight  shoes ;  otherwise  it  is  neither  handsome  in  itself, 
nor  will  it  give  rise  to  graceful  movements.  It  is  better 
to  have  the  sentiment  of  grace  in  a  foot,  than  a  forced 
or  unnatural  smallness.  The  Chinese  have  three  ideas  in 
their  heads  : — tea,  the  necessity  of  keeping  ofFambassa- 
dors,  and  the  beauty  of  small  feet.  The  way  in  which 
they  caricature  this  beauty  is  a  warning  to  all  dull  un- 


I 


CRITICISM    0\    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  243 

derstandings.  We  make  our  feet  bad  enough  already 
by  dint  of  squeezing.  Nations  with  shoes  have  no 
proper  feet,  Hke  those  who  wear  sandals.  But  the 
Chinese  out-pinch  an  inquisitor.  We  have  seen  a 
model  of  a  lady's  foot  of  that  country,  in  which  the  toes 
were  fairly  turned  underneath.  They  looked  as  if  they 
were  almost  jammed  into  and  made  part  of  the  sole. 
In  the  British  Museum,  if  we  remember,  there  is  a 
pair  of  shoes  that  Belonged  to  such  a  foot  as  this,  which 
are  shown  in  company  with  another  pair,  the  property 
of  Queen  Elizabeth.  Her  Majesty  stood  upon  no  cer- 
emony in  that  matter,  and  must  have  stamped  to  some 
purpose. 

But  what  are  beautiful  feet,  if  they  support  not,  and 
carry  about  with  them,  other  graces  ?  What  are  the 
most  harmonious  proportions,  if  the  soul  of  music  is 
not  within  ?  Graceful  movement,  an  unaffected  ele- 
gance of  demeanor,  is  to  the  figure  what  sense  and 
sweetness  are  to  the  eyes.  It  is  the  soul  looking  out. 
It  is  what  a  poet  has  called  the  "  thought  of  the  body." 
The  ancients,  as  the  moderns  do  still  in  the  south,  ad- 
mired a  stately  carriage  in  a  woman:  though  the  taste 
seems  to  have  been  more  general  in  Rome  than  in 
Greece.  It  is  to  be  observed,  that  neither  in  Greece 
nor  Rome  had  the  women  at  any  time  received  that 
truly  feminine  polish,  which  renders  their  manners  a 
direct  though  not  an  unsuitable  contrast  to  those  of  the 
other  sex.  It  was  reserved  for  the  Goths  and  their 
chivalry  to  reward  them  with  this  refinement;  and 
their  northern  descendants  have  best  preserved  it.  The 
walk  which  the  Latin  poets  attribute  to  their  beauties, 
is  still  to  be  seen  in  all  its  stateliness  at  Rome.  "  Shall 
f  be  treated  in  this  manner  ?"  says  Juno,  complaining 


244  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

of  her  injured  dignity, — "  I,  who  walk  the  queen  of  the 
gods,  the  sister  and  the  wife  of  Jove  ?"* — Venus,  meet- 
ino-  ^Eneas,  allows  herself  to  be  recognized  in  depart- 
ing :— 

"  Pedes  vestis  defluxit  ad  imos, 

Et  vera  incessu  patuit  Dea." 
"  In  length  of  train  descends  her  sweeping  gown, 
And  by  her  graceful  walk  the  queen  of  love  is  known." 

Dryden. 

A  stately  verse  ; — but  known  is  not  strong  enough  for 
patuit,  and  Virgil  does  not  say  "the  queen  of  love," 
but  simply  the  goddess — the  divinity.  The  walk  in- 
cluded every  kind  of  superiority.  It  is  the  step  of 
Homer's  ladies — 

"  Of  Troy's  proud  dames  whose  garments  sweep  the  ground." 

Pope. 

The  painting  has  more  of  Rubens  than  Raphael,  and 
we  could  not  help  tlmiking,  when  in  Italy,  that  the  walk 
of  the  females  had  more  spirit  than  grace.  They  know 
nothing  of  the  swimming  voluptuousness  with  which 
our  ladies  at  court  used  to  float  into  the  drawing-room 
with  their  hoops  ;  or  the  sweet  and  modest  sway  hither 
and  thither,  a  little  bending,  with  which  a  young  girl 
shall  turn  and  wind  about  a  garden  by  herself,  half 
serious,  half  playful.  Their  demeanor  is  sharper  and 
more  vehement.  The  grace  is  less  reserved.  There 
is,  perhaps,  less  consciousness  of  the  sex  in  it,  but  it  is 
not  the  most  modest  or  touching  on  that  account.  The 
women  in  Italy  sit  and  sprawl  about  the  doorways  in 
the  attitudes  of  men.  Without  being  viragos,  they 
swing  their  arms  as  they  walk.  There  is  infinite  self- 
possession,  but  no  subjection  of  it  to  a  sentiment.  The 
most  graceful  and  modest  have  a  certain  want  of  re- 

♦   "  Ego,  quffi  divum  inccdo  regina,"  &c.. 


CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  245 

tirement.  Their  movements  do  not  play  inwards,  but 
outwards :  do  not  wind  and  retreat  upon  themselves, 
but  are  developed  as  a  matter  of  course.  If  thought 
of,  they  are  equally  suffered  to  go  on,  with  an  unaf- 
fected and  crowning  satisfaction,  conquering  and  to 
conquer.     Tiiis  is  the  walk  that  Dante  admired : — 

"  Soave  a  guisa  va  di  un  bel  pavone ; 
Diritta  sopra  se,  come  una  grua.'' 

Sweetly  she  goes,  like  the  bright  peacock  ;  straight 
Above  herself,  like  to  the  lady  crane. 

This  is  not  the  way  we  conceive  Imogen  or  Desde- 
mona  to  have  walked. 

The  carriage  of  Laura,  Petrarch's  mistress,  was 
gentle  ;  but  she  was  a  Provencal,  not  an  Italian.  He 
counts  it  among  the  four  principal  charms  which  ren- 
dered him  so  enamored.  They  were  all  identified  with 
a  sentiment.  There  was  her  carriage  or  walk ;  her 
sweet  looks ;  her  dulcet  words ;  and  her  kind,  modest, 
and  self-possessed  demeanor. 

"  E  con  I'ander,  e  col  soave  sguardo, 
S'accordan  Ic  dolcissime  parole, 
E  I'atto  mansueto,  umile,  c  tardo. 
Di  tai  quattro  foville,  e  non  gia  sole, 
Nasce  '1  gran  foco  di  ch'  io  vivo  ed  ardo : 
Che  son  fatto  un  augel  notturno  al  sole." 

Sonnet  I3l. 

From  these  four  sparks  it  was,  nor  those  alone 
Sprung  the  great  fire  that  makes  me  what  I  am, 
A  bird  nocturnal,  warbling  to  the  sun. 

In  this  sonnet  is  the  origin  ola  word  of  Milton  s,  net 
noticed  by  the  commentators. 

"  With  store  of  ladies,  whose  bright  eyes 
Rain  influence." 

L'.Ar.i.EGRO. 


246  CRITICISM    ON    FEMALE    BEAUTY. 

"  Da  begli  occhi  un  piacer  si  caldo  piove." 
"  So  warm  a  pleasure  rairis  from  her  sweet  eyes." 

And  in  another  beautiful  sonnet,  where  he  describes 
her  sparkUng  with  more  than  her  wonted  lustre,  he 
says, 

"  Non  era  I'andar  suo  cosa  mortale, 
Ma  d'  angelica  forma." 

Sonnet  68. 

Her  going  was  no  mortal  thing ;  but  shaped 
Like  to  an  angel's. 

Now  this  is  the  difference  between  the  walk  of  the 
ancient  and  modern  heroine  ;  of  the  beauty  classical 
and  Proven9al,  Italian  and  English.  The  one  was  like 
a  goddess's,  stately,  and  at  the  top  of  tlie  earth ;  the 
other  is  like  an  angel's,  humbler,  but  nearer  heaven. 

It  is  the  same  with  the  voice.  The  southern  voice 
is  loud  and  uncontrolled ;  the  women  startle  you, 
bawling  and  gabbling  in  the  summer  air.  In  the  north, 
the  female  seems  to  bethink  her  of  a  thousand  delicate 
restraints ;  her  words  issue  forth  with  a  sort  of  cordial 
hesitation.  They  have  a  breath  and  apprehensiveness 
in  them,  as  if  she  spoke  with  every  part  of  her  being. 

"  Her  voice  was  ever  soft,  gentle,  and  low. 
An  excellent  thing  in  woman." 

Shakspeare. 

As  the  best  things,  however,  are  the  worst  when 
spoiled,  it  is  not  easy  to  describe  how  much  better  the 
unsophisticated  bawling  of  the  Italian  is,  than  the  af- 
fectation of  a  low  and  gentle  voice  in  a  body  full  of 
furious  passions.  The  Italian  nature  is  a  good  one, 
though  run  to  excess.  You  can  pare  it  down.  A 
good  system  of  education  would  make  it  as  fine  a  thing 
morally,  as  good  training  renders  Italian  singing  the 


CRITICISM    OIV    FEMALE    BEAUTY.  247 

finest  in  the  world.  But  a  furious  English  woman 
afFectinsr  sweet  utterance  ! — "  Let  us  take  any  man's 
horses,"  as  Falstaff  says. 

It  is  an  old  remark,  that  the  most  beautiful  women 
are  not  always  the  most  fascinating.  It  may  be  added, 
we  fear,  that  they  are  seldom  so.  The  reason  is  obvi- 
ous. They  are  apt  to  rely  too  much  on  their  beauty, 
or  to  give  themselves  too  many  airs.  Mere  beauty 
ever  was,  and  ever  will  be,  but  a  secondary  thing,  ex- 
cept with  fools.  And  they  admire  it  for  as  little  time 
as  anybody  else ;  perhaps  not  so  long.  They  have  no 
fancies  to  adorn  it  with.  If  this  secondary  thing  fall 
into  disagreeable  ways,  it  becomes  but  a  fifth  or  sixth- 
rate  thing,  or  nothing  at  all,  or  worse  than  nothing. 
We  resent  the  unnatural  mixture.  We  shrink  from  it, 
as  we  should  from  a  serpent  with  a  beauty's  head. 
The  most  fascinating  women  are  those  that  can  most 
enrich  the  every-day  moment  of  existence.  In  a  par- 
ticular and  attaching  sense,  they  are  those  that  can 
partake  our  pleasures  and  our  pains  in  the  liveliest  and 
most  devoted  manner.  Beauty  is  little  without  this. 
With  it,  she  is  indeed  triumphant. 


OF   STATESMEN  WHO  HAVE  WRITTEN 

VERSES. 

Universality  of  Poetry,  and  consequent  good  effects  of  a  taste  for  it. —  The 
greater  the  staixsman,  the  more  universal  his  mind. — Almost  all  great 
British  Statesmen  have  written  verses. — Specimen  of  verses  by  Wyatt, 
by  Essex,  by  Sackville,  Raleigh,  Marvell,  Peterborough,  and  Lord 
Holland. 

The  love  of  moral  beauty,  and  that  retention  of  the 
sph-it  of  youth,  which  is  implied  by  the  indulgence  of 
a  poetical  taste,  are  evidences  of  good  disposition  in 
any  man,  and  argue  well  for  the  largeness  of  his  mind 
in  other  respects.  For  this  is  the  boast  of  poetry  above 
all  other  arts  ;  that,  sympathizing  with  everything,  it 
leaves  no  corner  of  wisdom  or  knowledge  unrecog- 
nized ;  which  is  a  universality  that  cannot  be  predicated 
of  any  science,  however  great.  But  in  a  statesman, 
this  regard  for  the  poetical  is  doubly  pleasing,  from  the 
supposed  dryness  of  his  studies,  and  the  character  he 
is  apt  to  obtain  for  worldliness.  We  are  delighted  to 
see,  that,  sympathizing  with  poetry,  he  sympathizes 
with  humanity,  and  that,  in  attributing  to  him  a  mere 
regard  for  expedience  and  success,  we  do  him  injustice. 
In  truth,  most  men  do  injustice  to  one  another,  when 
they  thmiv  ill  of  what  is  at  their  heart's  core  ;  nay,  even 
when  they  take  for  granted  those  avowals  of  cunning 
and  misbelief,  which  are  themselves  generated  by  an 
erroneous  principle  of  sociality,  and  a  regard  for  what 


OF    STATESMEN,    ETC.  249 

their  neighbors  will  think  of  them.     If  it  were  sudden' 
ly  to  become  the  fashion  for  men  to  have  faith  in  one 
another,  Bond  Street  and  Regent   Street    would  be 
crowded  to-morrow  with  poetry  and  sentiment;  not 
because  fashion  is  fashion  (for  that  is  a  child's  reason), 
but  because  fashion  itself  arises  from  the  social  princi- 
ple, however  narrowly  exercised,  and  goes  upon  the 
ground  of  our  regard  for  one  another's  opinion.    States- 
men are  too  often  unjustly  treated  in  men's  minds,  as 
practisers  of  mere  cunning  and  expedience,  and  lovers 
of  power.     Much  self-love  is  doubtless  among  them, 
and   much   love  of  power.      Where  is  it  not  ?     But 
higher  aspirations  are  oftener  mingled  with  the  very 
cunning  and  expedience,  than  the  narrow-minded  sup- 
pose.    Indeed,  the  very  position  which  statesmen  oc- 
cupy, and  the  largeness  of  the  interests  in  which  they 
deal,  tend  to  create  such  aspirations  where  they  do  not 
very  consciously  exist;  for  a  man  cannot  be  habitually 
interested,  even  on  his  own  account,  with  the  concerns 
of  nations  and  the  welfare  of  his  fellow-creatures,  with- 
out having  his  nature  expanded.     vStatesmen  learn  to 
feel  as  "  England,"  and  as  "  France,"  or  at  least  as  the 
influential  portion  of  the  country,  and  not  as  mere  heads 
of  a  party,  however  the  partisanship  may  otherwise 
influence  them,  or  be  identified  with  their  form  of  pol- 
icy.    By-and-by  we  hope  they  may  feel,  not  as  "  Eng- 
land "or  as  "France,"  but  as  the  whole  world;  and 
they  will  do,  as  the  world  advances  in  knowledge  and 
influence.     Now  poetry  is  the  breath  of  beauty,  flow- 
ing around  the  spiritual  world,  as  the  winds  that  wake 
up  the  flowers  do  about  the  material ;  and  in  propor- 
tion as  statesmen  have  a  regard  for  poetry,  and  for 
what  the  highest  poetry  loves,  they  "  look  abroad,"  as 
Bacon  phrases  it,  "  into  universality,"  and  the  universe 

11* 


250  UN     STATESMEN 

partakes  of  the  benefit.  Bacon  himself  wrote  verses, 
though  he  had  not  heart  enough  to  write  good  ones ; 
but  his  great  knowledge  told  him,  that  verses  were 
good  things  to  write. 

We  most  compress  our  recollections  on  this  tempt- 
ing subject  into  the  smallest  possible  compass,  and 
therefore  shall  confine  ourselves  to  the  most  truly 
poetical  instances  we  can  call  to  mind ;  that  is  to  say, 
such  as  imply  the  most  genuine  regard  for  what  is 
imaginative  and  unworldly, — the  most  child-like  spirit 
retained  in  the  maturest  brains  and  manliest  hearts. 
We  must  confine  ourselves  also  to  our  own  country. 
For  it  is  a  very  curious  and  agreeable  fact,  that  scarce- 
ly any  name  of  eminence  can  be  mentioned  in  the  po- 
litical world,  from  Solon  and  Lycurgus  down  to  the 
present  moment,  that  has  not,  at  one  period  of  the  man's 
life  or  another,  been  connected  with  some  tribute  to 
the  spirit  of  grace  and  fancy  in  the  shape  of  verse. 
Perhaps  there  is  not  a  single  statesman  in  the  annals  of 
Great  Britain,  that  will  not  be  found  to  have  written 
something  in  verse, — some  lines  to  his  mistress,  com- 
pliment to  his  patron,  jest  on  his  opponent,  or  elegy  or 
epithalamium  on  a  court  occasion.  Even  Burleigh,  in 
his  youth,  wrote  verses  in  French  and  Latin :  Bacon 
versified  psalms  :*  and  Clarendon,  when  he  was  Mr. 
Hide,  and  one  of  the  "  wits  about  town,"  wrote  com- 
plimentary verses  to  his  friends  the  poets.  There  are 
some  on  a  play  of  Randolph's — the  concluding  couplet 
of  which  may  be  thought  ominous,  or  auspicious  (as 
the  reader  pleases),  of  the  future  historian's  royalism, — 

*  Here  is  one  of  the  couplets,  not  to  be  surpassed  in  the  annals  of. 
Grub  street : — 

"  With  wine,  man's  spirit /or  to  recreate ; 
And  oil,  man's  face  for  to  exhilarate ! !" 


WHO    HAVE    WRITTEN    VERSES.  251 

"  Thus  much,  where  King  applauds"  [that  is  to  say,  the  king  !]  "  I  dare 
be  bold 
To  say, — 'Tis  petty  treason  to  withhold. 

Edward  Hide." 

Wyatt,  Essex,  Sackville,  Raleigh,  Falkland,  Marvel!, 
Temple,  Somers,  Bolingbroke,  Pulteney,  Burke,  Fox, 
Sheridan,  Canning,  &c.,  &c.,  all  wrote  verses;  many 
of  them  late  in  life.  Pope's  Lord  Oxford  wrote  some, 
and  very  bad  they  were.  They  were  suggested  by 
some  displeasure  with  the  court  after  his  attempted 
assassination  by  Guiscard. 

"  To  serve  with  hve, 
And  slied  your  blood, 
Approved  is  above ; 
But  here  below, 
The  examples  show, 
'Tis  fatal  to  be  good!" 

Lord  Chatham  wrote  Latin  verses  at  college.  Pitt, 
his  son,  wrote  English  ones  in  his  youth,  and  assisted 
his  brothers  and  sisters  in  composing  a  play.  Even 
that  caricature  of  an  intriguing  and  servile  statesman, 
Bubb  Dodington,  had  a  poetical  vein  of  tender  and 
serious  grace. 

Our  first  statesman,  whl5se  verses  are  worth  quoting, 
is  Sir  Thomas  Wyatt,  a  diplomatist  of  exquisite  ad- 
dress in  the  service  of  Henry  the  Eighth.  He  was 
rather  a  great  man  than  a  great  poet,  and  his  most  im- 
portant pieces  in  verse  are  imitations  fi'om  other  lan- 
guages. But  he  was  very  fond  of  the  art,  and  was 
accounted  a  rival  in  his  day  of  his  illustrious  friend,  the 
Earl  of  Surrey.  The  following  "  Dcscriptioit'  is  in 
the  highest  moral  taste,  and.reminds  us  of  some  of  the 
sweet  quiet  faces'  in  the  Italian  masters,  or  the  exqui 


252  ON    STATESMEN 

site  combination  of  "  glad  and  sad"  in  the  female  coun- 
tenances of  Chaucer : — 

DESCRIPTION    OF    SUCH    A    ONE    AS    HE    WOULD   LOVE. 

"  A  face  that  shonld  content  me  wond'rous  well, 

Should  not  be  fair,  but  lovely  to  behold  ; 
With  gladsome  chere,  all  grief  for  to  expell ; 

With  sober  looks  so  would  I  that  it  should 
Speak  without  words,  such  words  as  none  can  tell ; 

The  tress  also  should  be  of  crisped  gold. 
With  wit,  and  these,  might  chance  I  might  be  tied, 

And  knit  again  the  knot  that  should  not  slide." 

The  reader  may  be  amused  with  the  following  speci- 
men of  the  pleasantness  with  which  a  great  man  can 
trifle.     It  is 

A    RIDDLE    OF    A    GIFT    GIVEN   BY   A    LADY. 

"  A  lady  gave  me  a  gift  she  had  not ; 
And  I  received  her  gift  I  took  not ; 
She  gave  it  me  willingly,  and  yet  she  would  not ; 
And  I  received  it,  albeit  I  could  not. 
If  she  give  it  me,  I  force  not ; 
And  if  she  take  it  again,  she  cares  not ; 
Construe  what  this  is,  and  tell  not ; 
For  I  am  fast  sworn,  I  may  not." 

The  solution  is  understood  to  be  a  Kiss. 

Our  next  poetical  statesman  is  Queen  Elizabeth's 
Earl  of  Essex;  and  of  a  truly  poetical  nature  was  he, 
though  with  this  unfortunate  drawback, — that  he  had 
a  will  still  stronger  in  him  than  love,  and  thrusting 
itself  in  front  of  his  understanding, — to  the  daring  of 
all  opposition,  good  as  well  as  bad,  and  downbreak  of 
himself  and  fortunes.  He  was  more  of  a  lover  of 
poets,  it  is  true,  than  a  poet ;  but  he  himself  was  a 
poem  and  a  romance.  The  man  who  could  even  think 
that  he  could  wish  to  "  hold  in  his  heart  the  sorrows 
of  all  his  friends,"  (for  such  is  a  beautiful  passage  in 


WHO    IIAVE    WRITTEN    VERSES.  253 

one  of  his  letters)  must  have  had  a  noble  capability  in 
his  nature,  that  makes  us  bleed  for  his  bleeding,  and 
wish  that  he  had  partaken  less  of  the  stormier  passions. 
He  died  on  the  scaffold  for  madly  attempting  to  dic- 
tate to  his  sovereign  by  force  of  nrms;  and  Elizabeth, 
as  fierce  as  he,  and  fuller  of  resentment,  is  thought  by 
some  to  have  broken  her  heart  for  the  sentence.  Here 
follow  some  most  curious  verses,  which  show  the 
simplicity,  and  love  of  gentleness,  in  one  of  the  corners 
of  the  man's  mind.  They  were  the  close  of  a  dis- 
patch he  sent  to  Elizabeth,  when  he  was  Lord  Lieu- 
tenant of  Ireland  !  Imagine  such  a  winding  up  of  a 
state  paper  now  ! 

"  Happy  is  he  could  finish  forth  his  fate 
In  some  unhaunted  desert  most  obscure, 

From  all  society,  from  love  and  hate, 
Of  worldly  folk  ;  then  should  he  sleep  secure. 
Then  wake  ajjain,  and  yield  God  ever  praise, 

Content  v\  ith  hips  and  haws  and  bramble-berry, — 
In  contemplation  passing  out  his  days, 

And  change  of  holy  thoughts  to  make  him  merry  ; 
Who  when  he  dies,  his  tomb  may  be  a  bush 
where  harmless  robin  dwells  with  gentle  thrush." 

We  could  never  understand  how  it  was,  that  Sack- 
ville.  Lord  Dorset  (in  the  time  of  Elizabeth),  who 
wrote  the  fine  Induction  to  the  "  Mirror  of  Magistrates," 
as  well  as  the  tragedy  of  "  Gorboduc,"  never  wrote 
anything  more, — at  least  of  any  consecjuence,  and  as 
far  as  we  know.  It  is  true,  he  became  a  busy  states- 
man ;  but  what  surprises  us  is,  that  so  genuine  a  poet 
could  refrain  from  his  poetical  vocation.  We  have 
made  up  our  minds  that  he  must  have  written  a  good 
deal  which  is  lost ;  for  we  can  as  little  imagine  a  poet 
passing  the  greater  part  of  his  life  without  writing 
poetry,  as  a  lark  who  never  sings. 


254  OF    STATESMEN 

The  Induction  to  the  "  Mirror  of  Magistrates"  is  a 
look  in  at  the  infernal  regions,  and  is  like  a  portal  to 
the  allegorical  part  of  the  Fairy  Queen,  or  rather  to 
the  sadder  portion  of  that  part ;  for  it  has  none  of  the 
voluptuousness,  and  but  little  imitation  of  the  beauty ; 
nor  is  the  style  anything  nearly  so  rich.  Perhaps  a 
better  comparison  would  be  that  of  the  quaint  figures 
of  the  earliest- Italian  painters,  compared  with  those  of 
Raphael.  Or  it  is  a  bit  of  a  minor  Dante.  But  the 
poetry  is  masterly  of  its  kind, — full  of  passion  and  im- 
agination,— true,  and  caring  for  nothing  but  truth. 
The  poet's  guide  in  his  visit  is  Sorrow — 

Ere  I  was  ware,  into  a  dftsart  wood 
We  now  were  come  ;  where  ,hand  in  hand  embraced, 
-    She  led  the  way,  and  thrmigh  the  thick  so  traced 
As,  but  I  had  been  guided  by  her  might, 
It  was  no  way  for  any  mortal  wight. 

But  lo  !  while  thus  amidst  the  desart  dark 
We  passed  on,  with  steps  and  pace  unmeet, 
A  rumbling  roar,  confused  with  howl  and  bark 
Of  dogs,  shook  all  the  ground  under  our  feet, 
And  struck  tlve  din  within  our  ears  so  deep, 
As,  half  distraught,  unto  the  ground  I  fell. 
Besought  return,  and  not  to  visit  hell. 
But  she,  forthwith,  uplifting  me  apace, 
Removed  my  dread,  and  with  a  steadfast  miii4, 
Bade  me  come  on,  for  here  was  now  the  place. 

*  *  *  * 

Next  saw  we  Dread,  all  trembUng  how  he  shook, 
With  foot  uncertain,  proffered  here  and  there  ; 
Benummed  of  speech,  and  with  a  ghastly  look, 
Searched  every  place,  all  pale  and  dead  with  fear, 
His  cap  borne  up  with  staring  of  his  hair. 

*  *  *  * 

By  him  lay  heavy  Sleep,  cousin  of  Death, 
Flat  on  the  ground,  and  still  as  any  stone  ; 
A  very  corpse  save  yielding  forth  a  breath. — 
The  body's  rest,  the  quiet  of  the  heart, 


WHO    HAVE    WRITTEN    VERSES.  255 

The  travail's  ease,  the  still  night's  feer*  was  he, 
And  of  our  life  in  earth  the  better  part, 
Reaver  of  sight,  and  yet  in  whom  we  see 
Things  oft  that  tide,  and  oft  that  never  be ; 
Without  respect  esteeming  equally 
King  Croesus'  pomp,  and  Irus'  poverty. 

*  *  *  * 

On  her  (Famine)  while  we  thus  firmly  fixed  our  eyes, 
That  bled  for  ruth  of  such  a  dreary  sight, 
Lo  !  suddenly  she  shrieked  in  so  huge  wise, 
As  made  hell  gates  to  shiver  with  the  might. 

Observe  the  line  marked  in  italics  in  the  following 
passage.  It  may  be  called  the  sublime  of  mud  and 
dirt !  Perhaps  Shakspeare  took  from  it  his  "  hell- 
broth"  that  "  boils  and  bubbles ;"  but  the  consistency 
is  here  thicker  and  more  horrid, — a  bog  of  death  : — 

Hencefrom  when  scarce  I  could  mine  eyes  withdraw 
That  filled  with  tears  as  doth  the  springing  well, 
We  passed  on  so  far  forth  till  we  saw 
Rude  Acheron,  a  loathsome  lake  to  tell, 
Tluit  boils  and  biibs  iip  swclth  as  black  as  hell. 

*  *  *  * 

Thence  came  we  to  the  horror  and  th£  hell, 
The  large  great  kingdoms,  and  the  dreadful  reign 
Of  Pluto  in  his  throne  where  he  did  dwell. 
The  wide  waste  places,  and  the  hugie  plain. 
The  wailings,  shrieks,  and  sundry  sorts  of  pain. 
The  sights,  the  sobs,  tlie  deep  and  deadly  groan. 
Earth,  air,  and  all,  resounding  plaint  and  moan. 

Sackville  has  been  gathered  into  collections  of 'Brit- 
ish poetry.  So  ought  Sir  Walter  Raleigh,  whose  po- 
ems have  been  lately  re-published.  Raleigh  was  a 
genuine  poet,  spoilt  by  what  has  spoilt  so  many  men 
otherwise  great, — his  rival  Essex  included, — the  ascen- 
dency of  his  will.  His  will  thrust  itself  before  his  un- 
derstanding,— the  imperious  part  of  his  energy  before 

*  Companion. 


256      *  OF    STATESMEN 

the  rational  or  the  loving  ;  and  hence  the  failure,  even 
in  his  worldly  view^s,  of  one  of  the  most  accomplished  of 
men.  We  cannot  say  that,  like  Bacon,  he  had  no  heart ; 
otherwise  he  could  not  have  been  a  poet ;  But  like  Ba- 
con, he  over-estimated  worldly  cunning ;  which  is  a 
weapon  for  little  men,  not  for  great ;  and  like  Bacon 
he  fell  by  it.  In  short,  he  wanted  the  highest  point  of 
all  greatness, — truth.  Raleigh's  poems  contain  some 
interesting  cravings  after  that  repose  and  quiet,  which 
great  restlessness  so  often  feels,  and  to  which  the  poet- 
ical part  of  his  nature  must  have  inclined  him  ;  but  a 
writer  succeeds  best  in  that  which  includes  his  entire 
qualities ;  and  the  best  production  of  this  lawless  and 
wilful  genius  is  the  fine  sonnet  on  the  Fairy  Queen  of 
his  friend  Spenser ;  which  not  content  with  admiring 
as  its  greatness  deserved,  he  violently  places  at  the 
head  of  all  poems,  ancient  and  modern,  sweeping  Pe- 
trarch into  oblivion,  and  making  Homer  himself  trem- 
ble.    It  is  one  of  the  noblest  sonnets  in  the  lamjuaffe. 

O  CD 

Warton  justly  remarks,  that  the  allegorical  turn  of  it 
gives  it  a  particular  beauty,  as  a  compliment  to  Spen- 
ser.— Petrarch's  paragon  of  fame  and  chastity,  it  is  to 
be  observed,  is  displaced  for  Queen  Elizabeth  ;  who  is 
implied  in  the  character  of  the  "  Fairy  Queen. 

Methought  I  saw  the  grave  where  Laura  lay 
Within  that  temple,  where  the  vestal  flame 
Was  wont  to  burn ;  and  passing  by  that  way 
To  see  that  buried  dust  of  livijig  fame, 
Whose  tomb  fair  Love  and  fairer  Virtue  kept, 
All  suddenly  I  saw  the  Fairy  Queen  ; 
At  whose  approach  the  soul  of  Petrarch  loept, 
And  from  henceforth  those  Graces  were  not  seen, 
For  they  this  Queen  attended  ;  in  whose  stead 
Oblivion  laid  him  down  on  Laura^s  hearse  ; — 
Hereat  the  hardess  stones  were  seen  to  bleed, 
And  groans  of  buried  ghosts  the  heavens  did  perse ; 


i 


WHO    HAVE    WRITTEN   VERSES.  257 

Where  Homer's  spright  did  tremble  all  for  grief, 
And  curst  the  access  of  that,  celestial  thkf. 

We  have  marked  some  of  these  Hnes  in  Itahcs  ;  but 
indeed  the  whole  might  have  been  so  marked. 

Sir  Henry  Wotton,  James  the  First' s  ambassador  to 
Venice,  afterwards  Provost  of  Eton  College,  really- 
united  those  two  extremes  of  a  taste  for  business  and 
retirement,  which  Sir  Walter's  less  tender  nature  could 
only  combine  in  fancy.  He  was  author  of  the  famous 
definition  of  an  ambassador  ("  An  honest  man  sent  to 
lie  abroad  for  the  good  of  his  country,")  and  of  the  no 
less  true  epitaph  which  he  desired  to  be  put  on  his 
tombstone,'  Hie  jacet  hvjus  sententicc,  &c.  Here  lies 
the  first  author  of  this  sentence,  "  The  itch  of  disputa- 
tion is  the  scab  of  the  church ;" — one  of  those  rare 
sayings,  the  apparent  coarseness  of  which  is  vindicated 
by  the  refinement  and  worthiness  of  the  feeling.  This 
statesman,  who  was  among  the  first  to  hail  the  genius 
of  Milton,  was  author  of  several  graceful  poems,  touch- 
ing for  their  thoughtfulness  and  goodness.  One  ot 
the  most  admired,  which  is  to  be  found  in  many  collec- 
tions, begins 

How  happy  is  he  born  and  taught, 
Who  serveth  not  another's  will. 

Lord  Falkland,  tl^ romantic  adherent  of  Charles 
the  First,  but  friend  of  all  parties,  and  tender-hearted 
desirer  of  peace,  left  some  poems  which  are  to  be  found 
in  Nichols's  Collection,  vol.  i.  p..  236,  and  vol.  viii.  p. 
247.  The  memory  of  Sir  Richard  Fanshaw's  diplo- 
matic talents  would  have  been  swallowed  up  in  the 
reputation  of  the  translator  of  Guarini's  "  Pastor  Fido," 
had  not  an  account  of  him  been  written  by  that  sweet 
amazon,  his  wife,  who  (unknown  to  him)  fought  by  his 


258  OF    STATESMEN 

side  on  board  ship  in  the  disguise  of  a  cabin-boy.  But 
we  now  come  to  the  great  wit  and  partisan,  Andrew 
Marvell,  whose  honesty  baffled  the  arts  of  the  Stuarts, 
and  whose  pamphlets  and  verses  had  no  mean  hand  in 
helping  to  put  an  end  to  their  dynasty.  Marvell  unites 
wit  with  earnestness  and  depth  of  sentiment,  beyond 
any  miscellaneous  writer  in  the  language.  His  firm 
partisanship  did  not  hinder  him  being  of  the  party  of 
all  mankind,  and  doing  justice  to  what  was  good  in  the 
most  opposite  characters.  In  a  panegyric  on  Crom- 
well he  has  taken  high  gentlemanly  occasion  to  record 
the  dignity  of  the  end  of  Charles  the  First. 

So  restless  Cromwell  could  not  cease 
In  the  inglorious  arts  of  peace, 

Bur  through  adventurous  war 

Urged  his  active  star  ; 

And,  like  the  three-fold  lightning,  first 
BrcaJdng  the  clouds  cohere  it  was  nurst, 

Did  thorough  his  own  side 

His  fiery  way  divide; 

Then  burning  through  the  air  he  went 
And  palaces  and  tempUs  rent, 

And  CcEsafs  head  at  last 

Did,  through  his  laurels,  blast. 

'T  is  madness  to  resist  or  blame 
The  face  of  angry  heaven's  flame  ; 

And  if  we  would  speal^ue, 

Much  to  the  man  is  due, 

Who  from  his  private  garden,  where 
He  Uv'd  reserved  and  austere, 

(as  if  his  highest  plot 

To  plant  the  bergamot) 

Could  by  industrious  valor  climb 

To  ruin  the  great  work  of  time. 
And  cast  the  kingdoms  old 
Into  another  mould. 


WHO    HAVE    WRITTEN    VERSES.  259 

What  field  of  all  the  civil  wars, 
Where  his  were  not  the  deepest  scars  1 

And  Hampton  shows  what  part 

He  had  of  wiser  art : 

Where  twining  subtle  fears  with  hope 
He  wove  a  net  of  such  a  scope, 

That  Charles  himself  might  chase 

To  Clarisbrook's  narrow  case; 

That  thence  the  royal  actor  borne 
The  tragic  scaffold  might  adorn, 

While  round  the  armed  bands 

Did  clap  their  bloody  hands. 

He  nothing  common  did,  or  mean. 
Upon  that  memorable  scene, 

But  tvilh  his  keener  eye 
The  axe's  edge  did  try ; 

Nor  calVd  the  gods  with  vulgar  spite 
To  vindicate  his  helpless  right, 

But  bow'd  his  comely  head 

Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

The  emphatic  cadence  of  this  couplet, 

— Bow'd  his  comely  head 
Down,  as  upon  a  bed. 

is  in  the  best  taste  of  his  friend  Milton. 

Sir  WiUiam  Temple  wrote  verses  with  a  spirit  be- 
yond the  fashion  of  his  time,  as  may  be  seen  by  some 
translations  from  Virgil  in  Nichols's  Collection,  fresher, 
to  our  taste,  than  Dryden's.  Halifax  has  got  into  the 
"  British  Poets."  Somers  was  among  the  translators 
of  Garth's  "Ovid."  Even  miserly  Pulteney  was  a 
verseman ; — to  say  nothing  of  flighty  Ilanbury  Wil- 
liams, and  crawling  Dodington.  Bolinbroke,  among 
other  small  poems,  addressed  one  of  singularly  good 
advice  for  a  man  of  his  character  to  a  mistress  of  his, — 
probably  the  same  of  whom  a  strange  affecting  anec- 


2G0  OF    STATESMEN 

dote  is  told   in  the  "  Memoirs  of  the  late  Bishop  of 
Norwich,"  just  published.* 

Take  the  melancholy  taste  of  this  anecdote  of  your 
mouth,  dear  reader,  with  the  following  effusion  from 
the  pen  of  the  great  Lord  Peterborough,  full  of  those 
animal  spirits  which  he  retained  at  the  age  of  seventy- 
seven,  and  of  a  love  which  manifested  itself  to  nearly 
as  late  a  period.  It  is  on  the  celebrated  Mrs.  Howard 
afterwards  Countess  of  Suffolk,  supposed  mistress  of 
George  the  Second, — famous  among  her  friends  for 
the  union  of  sweet  temper  with  sincerity. 

I  said  to  my  heart,  between  sleeping  and  waiting, 
"  Thou  wild  tiling,  that  always  are  leaping  or  aching. 
What  black,  brown,  or  fair,  in  what  clime,  in  what  nation. 
By  turns  has  not  taught  thee  a  pit-a-patation  V 

Thus  accused,  the  wild  thing  gave  this  sober  reply: — 
"  See  the  heart  without  motion,  though  Ceha  pass  by! 
Not  the  beauty  she  has  not  the  wit  that  she  borrows, 
Give  the  eye  any  joys,  or  the  heart  any  sorrows. 

"  When  our  Sappho  appears — she,  whose  wit  so  refined 
I  am  forced  to  applaud  with  the  rest  of  mankind- 
Whatever  she  says  is  with  spirit  and  fire ; 
Ev'ry  word  I  attend,  but  I  only  admire. 

"  Prudentia  as  vainly  would  put  in  her  claim, 
Ever  gazing  on  Heaven,  though  man  is  her  aim  ; 

'Tis  love,  not  devotion,  that  turns  up  her  eyes 

Those  stars  of  this  world  are  too  good  for  the  skies. 

"  But  Chloe  so  lively,  so  easy,  so  fair, 

Her  wit  so  genteel,  without  art,  without  care ; 


*  She  came  to  his  house  one  day,  would  not  be  denied  by  the  porter, 
and  bursting  into  his  room,  threw  down  a  purse  full  of  gold,  exclaming 
in  tears,  "  There  are  my  wretched  earning.s — take  them — and  may  God 
bless  you."  Saying  which,  she  departed.  There  is  a  mystery  in  the 
story;  for  what  could  Bolingbroke  want  with  a  purse  of  gold,  and  from 
such  a  quarter  1  But  there  is  possibly  a  truth  of  some  kind  in  it,  and 
evidence  that  he  had  a  better  heart  to  deal  with  than  his  own. 


WHO    HAVE    WRITTEN    VERSES.  2G1 

When  she  comes  in  my  way — the  motion,  the  pain, 
The  leapings,  the  achings,  return  all  again." 

O  wonderful  creature  !  a  woman  of  reason  ! 
Never  grave  out  of  pride,  never  gay  out  of  season; 
When  so  easy  to  guess,  who  this  angel  should  be. 
Would  one  think  Mrs.  Howard  ne'er  dreamt  it  was  she  1 

Poetical  quotations  so  soon  carry  an  article  to  great 
length,  that  we  are  sorry  we  must  cut  the  present  one 
short ;  which  we  shall  do  with  one  of  the  most  interest- 
ing as  well  as  latest  specimensof  our  subject,  produced 
in  advanced  life  by  a  nobleman  who  possessed  and 
deserved  the  good  opinion  of  all  parties,  for  he  com- 
bined the  good  qualities  of  all, — the  political  energy 
and  generous  hospitality  of  the  Tories,  the  liberal 
opinions  of  the  best  of  the  Whigs,  and  the  universal 
sympathy  of  the  Radical.  We  hardly  need  add  for  any 
one's  information,  that  we  mean  Lord  Holland.  The 
more  than  elegant,  the  cordial  vers  de  societe  of  his 
uncle  Charles  Fox  (we  allude  particularly  to  his  lines 
on  Mrs.  Crewe),  the  art  and  festivity  of  those  of  Sheri- 
dan, and  the  witty  mockery  of  Canning's,  are  too  well 
known  to  warrant  repetition  ;  and,  generally  speaking, 
they  belong  also  to  the  conventionalities  of  a  time  gone 
bv,  and  not  likely  to  return.  But  there  is  a  higher 
and  more  lasting  aspiration  in  the  modest  effusion  of 
the  Noble  Lord  ;  nor  do  we  know  anything  more 
touching  in  the  sophisticated  life  to  which  such  men 
must  be  more  or  less  subject,  than  this  evidence,  on 
the  part  of  a  statesman  of  his  years  and  experience,  of 
his  having  preserved  a  young  heart  and  a  thoughtful 
conscience. 

SONNET    BY  LORD    HOLLAND,    ON    READING  "  PARADISE    REGAINED."       1830 

Homer  and  l)r>-dcn,  nor  unfrequcntly 
The  playful  Ovid  or  tho  Italian's  song 


262  OF    STATESMEN,    ETC. 

That  held  entranced  my  youthful  thoughts  so  long 
With  dames  and  loves  and  deeds  of  chivalry, 
E'en  now  delight  me.     From  the  noisy  throng 

Thither  I  fly  to  sip  the  sweets  that  lie 

Enclosed  in  tend  crest  folds  of  poesy 
Oft  as  for  ease  my  weary  spirits  long. 
But  when,  recoiling  from  the  fouler  scene 

Of  sordid  vice  or  rank  atrocious  crime. 
My  sickening  soul  pants  for  the  pure  serene 

Of  loftier  regions,  quitting  tales  and  rhyme, 
I  turn  to  Milton  ;  and  his  heights  sublime, 
By  me  too  long  u7isought,  I  strive  to  climb.* 


*  The  present  administration  is  more  hterary  and  poetical  than  any 
which  the  nation  has  seen.  The  public  are  familiar  with  some  distin- 
guished proofs  of  it ;  and  others  of  a  graceful  and  interesting  nature 
might  easily  be  adduced.  But  though  to  omit  all  allusion  to  the  circum- 
stance, at  the  close  of  an  article  like  the  foregoing,  might  have  been 
thought  strange  and  invidious,  to  dwell  upon  it  might  subject  the  writer 
at  this  moment  to  very  painful  suspicions. 


FEMALE   SOVEREIGNS   OF   ENGLAND. 

Real  character  of  Lady  Jane  Orey. — Excuses  for  "  Bloody  Mary." — 
Elizabeth,  when  young. — Anne  and  the  Duchess  of  Marlborough. — 
Accession  of  her  present  Majesty. 

The  accession  of  a  young  Queen  to  the  throne,  es- 
pecially under  existing  circumstances,  renders  it  not 
uninteresting  to  glance  at  the  history  and  characters 
of  her  female  predecessors.  A  word  also,  though  it 
be  a  word  only  (for  how,  without  better  knowledge  of 
her,  can  we  say  more?)  cannot  but  be  said  of  the 
youthful  Monarch  herself,  whose  interest  was  summed 
up  the  other  day  in  an  admirable  and  statesman-like 
article  in  the  Morning  Chronicle,  as  consisting  in  being 
to  Political  Reformation  what  Elizabeth  was  to  Re- 
ligious,— its  willing  and  glorious  star,  not  its  foolish 
torch,  attempting  to  frighten  it  back.  If  volumes  were 
written  on  the  subject,  they  could  not  say  more  than 
that  single  analogy.  Our  feelings,  however,  will  lead 
us  to  add  another  word  or  two  before  we  conclude ; 
but  we  will  observe  the  order  of  time  and  look  back 
first. 

The  females  who  have  reigned  in  this  country  pre- 
viously to  her  Majesty,  are  Mary,  Elizabeth,  and  Anne ; 
for  though  the  second  Mary,  wife  of  William  the  Third, 
was  Queen  in  her  own  right,  circumstances  and  her 
disposition  left  the  exercise  of  power  entirely  to  her 


264  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

husband ;  and  as  to  poor  Lady  Jane  Grey,  to  whom 
Mr.  Turner  in  his  valuable  history  has  not  improperly 
devoted  a  chapter  as  "  Queen  Jane,"  she  did  but  reign 
long  enough  (ten  or  eleven  days)  to  undo  the  romance 
of  her  character  and  quarrel  with  her  husband.  The 
world,  with  an  honorable  credulity,  have  been  in  the 
habit  of  taking  Lady  Jane  Grey  and  Lord  Guildford 
Dudley  for  a  pair  of  mere  innocent  lovers  and  victims. 
Victims  they  were,  but  not  without  a  weakness  little 
amiable  on  one  side,  if  not  on  both.* 

Of  the  first  Mary,  long  and  too  deservedly  known  by 
Ihe  title  of  "  Bloody  Mary,"  (which  the  truer  justice  of 
a  right  Christian  philosophy  has  latterly  been  the 
means  of  discontinuing),  we  confess  we  can  never 
think  without  commiseration.  Unamiable  she  cer- 
tainly was,  and  deplorably  bigoted.    She  sent  two  hun- 


*  "  Mild  and  modest,  and  young,  as  she  unquestionably  was,"  says 
Turner,  "the  spirit  of  royalty  and  power  had  within  twenty-four  hours 
gained  such  an  ascendency  in  her  studious  mind,  that  she  heard  the  inti- 
mation of  her  husband  being  elevated  to  the  same  dignity  as  herself,  with 
vexation  and  displeasure.  As  soon  as  she  was  left  alone  with  him,  she 
remonstrated  against  this  measure;  and  after  much  dispute,  he  agreed  to 
wait  till  she  herself  should  make  him  king,  and  by  an  act  of  Parliament. 
But  even  this  concession,  to  take  this  dignity  as  a  boon  from  her,  did  not 
satisfy  the  sudden  expansion  of  her  new-born  ambition.  She  soon  sent 
for  the  Earls  of  Arundel  and  Pembroke,  and  informed  them  that  she  was 
willing  to  create  her  husband  a  duke,  but  would  never  consent  to  make 
him  king.  This  declaration  brought  down  his  motlier  in  great  fury  to 
her,  with  all  the  force  of  enraged  language  and  imperious  disdain.  The 
violent  duchess  scolded  her  young  queen,  and  roused  the  mortified  Dudley 
to  forsake  her  chamber  of  repose,  and  to  vow  that  he  would  accept  no  title 
but  the  regal  honor."  History  of  England,  as  quoted  further  on,  p.  219.— 
Jane's  best  claim  to  the  respect  of  posterity  must  remain  with  her  taste 
for  literature.  She  had  the  good  sense  to  feel,  and  avow,  that  there  was 
no  comfort  like  her  books  in  adversity.  Her  nature  seems  in  other  re- 
spects to  have  had  a  formal  insipidity,  excitable  only  by  stimulants  which 
did  not  agree  with  it. 


OV    ENGLAND.  265 

dred  and  eighty-four  people  to  the  stake  during  a  short 
reign  of  five  years  and  four  months  ;  which,  upon  an 
average,  is  upwards  of  four  a  week  !  She  was  withal 
plain,  petty  of  stature,  ill-colored,  and  fierce-eyed,  with 
a  voice  almost  as  deep  as  a  man's  ;  had  a  bad  blood ; 
and  ended  with  having  nobody  to  love  her,  not  even 
the  bigots  in  whose  cause  she  lost  the  love  of  her  peo- 
ple.* But  let  us  recollect  whose  daughter  she  was, 
and  under  what  circumstances  born  and  bred.  She 
inherited  the  tyrannical  tendencies  of  her  father  Henry 
the  Eighth,  the  melancholy  and  stubbornness  of  her 
mother  Katherine  ;  and  she  had  the  misfortune,  say 
rather  the  unspeakable  misery  of  being  taught  to  think 
it  just  to  commit  her  fellow-creatures  to  the  flames,  for 
doing  no  more  than  she  stubbornly  did  herself;  namely, 
vindicate  the  right  of  having  their  own  opinion.  Re- 
collect, above  all,  that  she  was  not  happy  ; — that  it  was 
not  in  gayety  or  sheer  unfeelingness  that  she  did  what 
she  thus  frightfully  thought  to  be  her  duty.  She  suf- 
fered bitterly  herself;  and  she  not  only  suffered  for 
herself  and  her  own  personal  sorrows,  but  sharply  for 
her  sense  of  the  public  welfare,  and  that  of  men's  \'ery 
souls.     Ill    sending    people   to  the  stake,  she   fancied 

*  Michele,  the  Venetian  Ambassador,  in  the  account  which  he  wrote 
of  her,  (see  EUis's  Letters,  mentioned  a  little  further  on,)  describes  her  as 
"  moderately  pretty,"  according  to  the  translator.  But  there  is  reason  to 
doubt  the  correctness  of  a  version  which  in  speaking  of  Elizabeth's  com- 
plexion, renders  "  olivastro"  by  "  sallow," — at  least  that  is  not  the  usual 
acceptation  of  the  meaning  of  the  word  "sallow  ;"  it  is  also  opposed  by 
the  context,  as  will  be  seen  presently  ;  and  if  Michele  really  meant  to  say 
that  JMary  was  "  moderately  pretty,"  and  did  not  use  fhc  words  as  good- 
naturedly  implying  something  difTerent,  he  goes  counter  to  all  which  is 
understood  of  her  face  in  history,  and  certainly  to  the  prints  of  it,  which 
are  those  of  a  melancholy  and  homely-looking  vixen.  It  is  a  pity  the 
rest  of  the  original  had  not  been  quoted,  as  well  as  a  few  sentences. 

12 


266  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

(with  the  dreadful  involuntary  blasphemy  taught  her 
by  her  creed),  that  it  was  necessary,  in  order  to  save 
millions  from  eternal  wretchedness  ;  and  if  in  this  per- 
verted sense  of  duty  there  was  a  willing  participation 
of  the  harsher  parts  of  her  character,  she  had  sensi- 
bility enough  to  die  of  a  broken  heart. — Peace  and 
pardon  to  her  memory.  Which  of  us  might  not  have 
done  the  same,  or  more,  had  we  been  so  unhappily 
situated  ? 

Both  Mary  and  her  sister  Elizabeth  passed  the  ear- 
lier portion  of  their  lives  in  singular  vicissitudes  of  quiet 
and  asritation, — each  unwelcome  to  their  father, — each 
at  times  tranquilly  pursuing  their  studies,  and  each 
persecuted  for  their  very  different  opinions  ; — Mary 
by  her  Protestant  brother  Edward,  and  EUzabeth  by 
her  Catholic  sister  Mary.  At  one  time  they  were 
treated  like  princesses,  at  another  as  if  they  were 
aliens  in  blood,  or  had  been  impudently  palmed  upon 
it.  Now  they  were  brought  before  councils,  to  answer 
for  opinions  that  put  their  lives  in  jeopardy ;  now  riding 
about  with  splendid  retinues,  and  flattered  by  courtly 
expectants.  How  different  from  the  retired  and  ap- 
parently beautiful  manner  in  which  the  present  Queen 
has  been  brought  up,  safe  in  her  pleasant  home  in  Ken- 
sington Gardens ;  and  whenever  she  moves  about, 
moving  in  unostentatious  comfort,  and  linked  with  a 
loving  mother.  Oh  !  never  may  she  forget,  that  it  was 
free  and  reforming  opinions  which  brought  her  this 
great  good  ;  and  that  if  Elizabeth  had  gone  back  with 
her  age,  instead  of  advancing  with  it,  and  succumbed 
to  the  anti-popular  part  of  the  priesthood  and  the  aris- 
tocracy, she,  the  secure,  and  tranquil,  and  popular  Vic 
toria,  might  this  moment  have  been  dragged  before 


OF    ENGLAND.  267 

councils  as  Elizabeth  was,  or  been  forced  to  struggle 
with  insurrections  and  public  hatred,  like  Mary.* 

*  The  following  (abridged  by  Ellis  from  Hollinshed)  is  a  specimen 
of  the  treatment  to  which  heiresses  to  the  throne  were  liable  in  those 
days :— "  The  day  after   the   breaking  out  of  Wyat's   rebcHion  was 
known  at  court,  he  says,  the  Queen  sent  three  of  her  council,  Sir  Rich- 
ard Southwell,  Sir  Edward  Hastings,  and  Sir  Thomas  Cornwallis,  to 
Ashbridge,  with  a  strong  guard,  to  escort  the  Princess  Elizabeth,  who 
lay  sick  there,  to  London.     When  they  arrived,  at  10  o'clock  at  night, 
the  Princess  had  gone  to  rest,  and  refused  to  see  them :  they  however 
entered  her  chamber  rudely,  when  her  Grace,  being  not  a  little  amazed, 
said  unto  them,  '  Is   the  haste  such  that  it  might  not  have  pleased  you 
to  come  to-morrow  in  the  morning  V     They  made  answer,  that  they 
were  right  sorry  to  see  her  in  such  a  case.     '  And  I,'  quoth  she,  '  am 
not  glad  to  see  you  here  at  this  time  of  night.'     Whereunto  they  an- 
.swered  that  they  came  from  the  Queen  to  do  their  message  and  duty  ; 
that  it  was  the  Queen's  pleasure  that  her  Grace  should  be  in  London  on 
a  given  day,  and  that  the  orders  were  to  bring  her  '  quick  or  dead.' 
The  Princess  complained  of  the  harshness  of  their  commission ;  but 
Dr.  Owen  and  Dr.  Wendie  deciding  that  she  might  travel  without  dan- 
ger of  life,  her  Grace  was  informed  that  the  Queen  had  sent  her  own 
litter  for  her  accommodation,  and  that  the  next  morning  she  would  be 
removed.     She  reached  Rcdburnc  in  a  very  feeble  condition  the  first 
night ;  on  the  second  she  rested  at  Sir  Ralph  Rowlct's  house,  at  St. 
Albans ;  on  the  third  at  Mr.  Dod's,  at  Mimmes,  and  on  the  fourth  at 
Highgate,  where  she  stayed  a  night  and  a  day.     She  was  thence  con- 
veyed to  the  Court,  where,  remaining  a  close  prisoner  for  a  whole  fort- 
night, she  saw  neither  king,  nor  queen,  nor  lord,  nor  friend.     On  the 
Friday  before   Palm   Sundn}%    Gardiner,   Bishop  of  Winchester,  with 
nineteen  others  of  the  council,  came  from  the  Queen,  and  charged  her 
with  being  concerned  not  only  in  Wyat's  conspiracy,  but  in  the  rcbel- 
Hon  of  Sir  Peter  Carew.     They  then  declared  unto  her  the  Queen's 
pleasure  that  she  should  go  to  the  Tower  till  the  matter  could  be  fur- 
ther traced  and  examined.     Against  this  she  remonstrated,  protesting 
her  innocence,  but  the  lords  answered  that  there  was  no  remedy.    Her 
own  attendants  were  then  dismissed,  and  those  of  the  Queen  placed 
about  her.  ♦  ••  ♦  »  ♦  * 

"  Upon  the  succeeding  day,  Palm  Sunday,  an  order  was  issued 
throughout  London  that  every  one  should  keep  the  church  and  carry 
his  palm  ;  during  which  time  the  Princess  was  carried  to  the  Tower. 

"  The  landing  at  the  traitor's  gate  she  at  first  refused ;  but  one  of  the 
lords  5t/;ppr.d  back  into  the  tnrr-e  to  urf.'  her  coming  out,  '  and  because 


268  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

There  are  not  so  many  records  of  Mary's  youth  as 
of  that  of  her  sister.  She  was  brought  up  in  the  same 
accompUshments  of  music  and  scholarship,  bat  had  not 
so  many ;  and  she  underwent  similar  disadvantages  of 
occasional  neglect,  but  not  of  such  extent. 

Elizabeth,  to  use  an  old  phrase,  we  can  "  fetch"  al- 
most "from  her  cradle  ;"  indeed  quite  so,  if  we  go  to 
Hollinshed,  or  to  Shakspeare,  who  have  recorded  her 
christening.  After  her  mother's  downfall,  she  was  very 
carelessly  treated.  In  Ellis's  Letters*  is  one  from  her 
governess,  Lady  Brian,  to  Lord  Cromv/ell,  asking  for 
instructions  concerning  her,  and  complaining  that  she 
is  "  put  from  her  degree,"  and  has  neither  gown  nor 

it  did  then  rain,'  says  Hollinshed,  '  he  offered  to  her  hia  cloak,  which 
she  (putting  it  back  with  her  hand  with  a  good  dash)  refused.  Then 
coming  out,  with  one  foot  upon  the  stair,  she  said,  '  Here  landeth  as 
true  a  subject,  being  prisoner,  as  ever  landed  at  these  stairs ;  and  be- 
fore thee,  O  God,  I  speak  it,  having  none  other  friends  but  thee  alone.' 

"  To  her  prison-chamber,  it  is  stated,  she  was  brought  with  great  re- 
luctance ;  and  the  locking  and  bolting  the  doors  upon  her  caused  dis- 
may. She  was,  moreover,  for  some  time  denied  even  the  liberty  of  ex- 
ercise. Early  in  the  following  May  the  Lord  Chandos,  who  was  then 
the  Constable  of  the  Tower,  was  discharged  of  his  office,  and  Sir  Henry 
Bedingfield  appointed  in  his  room.  '  He  brought  with  him,'  says  the 
liistorian,  '  an  hundred  soldiers  in  blue  coats,  wherewith  the  Princess 
was  marvellously  discomfited,  and  demanded  of  such  as  were  about 
whether  the  Lady  Jane's  scaffold  were  taken  away  or  no — fearing,  by 
reason  of  their  coming,  lest  she  should  have  played  her  part.'  Warton 
says  she  asked  this  question  '  with  her  usual  liveliness ;'  but  there  was 
probably  less  in  it  of  vivacity  than  he  supposed.  Sixty  years  before, 
upon  the  same  spot.  Sir  James  Tirell  had  been  suddenly  substituted  for 
Sir  Robert  Brackenbury,  preparatory  to  the  disappearance  of  the 
Princes  of  the  House  of  York.  Happily  for  Elizabeth  her  fears  were 
groundless ;  Sir  Henry  Bedingfield  accompanied  her  to  a  less  gloomy 
prison  in  the  Palace  of  Woodstock." 

*  Original  Letters,  illustrative  of  English  History,  &c.  With  Notes 
and  Illustrations.  By  Henry  Ellis,  &c.,  &c.  Second  Series.  Vol.  ii. 
p.  78. 


OF    ENGLAND.  269 

petticoat,  "nor  no  manner  of  linnin  for  smokes."  She 
was  taught  to  write  by  the  famous  Ascham ;  and  lier 
penmanship  was  accounted  beautiful.  From  what  we 
have  seen  of  it,  it  looks  more  masculine  than  beautiful. 
Indeed  her  signature  is  tall  and  tremendous  enough  to 
have  been  that  of  a  giantess. 

At  the  age  of  fourteen,  in  her  brother  Edward's 
reign,  Elizabeth  was  under  the  care  of  her  father's 
widow  Catherine  Parr,  who  then  lived  at  Chelsea  in 
one  of  the  royal  manor  houses,  occupying  part  of  the 
site  of  the  present  Cheyne  Row ;  a  spot,  that  has  be- 
come curious  from  the  boisterous  gallantry  that  she 
seems  to  have  permitted  from  Catherine's  husband,  the 
Lord  Admiral  Seymour,  brother  of  the  Protector 
Somerset, — a  couple  of  ambitious  men,  who  both  lost 
their  heads  in  those  beautiful  aristocratic  times.  Mr. 
Turner,  agreeably  to  his  very  Protestant  but  doubtless 
sincere  good  opinion  of  Elizabeth,  revolts  from  the 
unceremonious  love-making  of  Seymour,  and  betwixt 
partiality  and  modesty  suppresses  the  more  awkward 
details  ;*  Dr.  Lingard,  the  Catholic  historian,  sternly 
brings  them  forth,  and  does  not  disguise  his  faith  in 
them.f  As  we  have  no  claim  in  this  place  to  the 
court-of-law  privileges  of  history,  we  shall  not  repeat 
these  passages  ;  neither  do  we  hold  with  either  of  these 
respectable  writers,  in  the  view  they  take  of  Elizabeth's 
character  in  reference  to  matters  of  this  nature.  Times 
are  to  be  considered, — manners, — customs, — and  a 
thousand  questions  still  existing,  too  important  to  dis- 
cuss here,  but  all  very  necessary  before  we  arrive  at 

♦  History  of  the  Rciirns  of  Edward  the  Sixth,  IMary,  and  Elizabeth. 
By  Sharon  Turner.     Vol.  iv.  p.  118. 

t  History  of  England,  &c.  By  the  Rev.  John  Lingard.  Vol.  iv. 
p.  401. 


270  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

the  candid  conclusions  of  a  philosophy  which  see  jus- 
tice done  to  all.  If  Elizabeth  partook  of  more  of  the 
weaknesses  common  to  human  nature  than  her  eulo- 
gizers  are  willing  to  allow,  she  possessed  more  virtues 
than  are  granted  her  by  her  enemies  ;  and  whatever 
may  be  the  pettier  details  of  her  history,  it  is  not  to  be 
disputed  that  she  was  a  great  Queen,  fit  to  be  sur- 
rounded with  the  men  whose  merit  she  had  the  sense 
to  discern.  She  perceived  the  statesman  in  Cecil,  be- 
fore she  came  to  the  throne,  and  she  retained  him  with 
her  till  he  died.  She  partook  of  her  father's  imperious- 
ness,  and  of  her  mother's  gayer  blood  :  but  she  inherited 
also  the  greater  brain  of  her  grandfather  Henry  the 
Seventh,  to  whom  she  is  said  to  have  borne  a  likeness  ; 
and  the  mixture  of  all  three  produced  a  sovereign,  not 
indeed  free  from  very  petty  defects  (for  she  was  ex- 
cessively fond  of  flattery,  jealous  even  of  a  fine  gown, 
and  so  fond  of  dress  herself,  that  she  would  change  it 
daily  for  months  together),  but  great  in  the  main,  able 
to  understand  the  true  interests  of  her  country,  and 
sovereign  mistress  even  of  the  favorites  who  touched 
her  heart,  and  who  could  bring  tears  into  her  proud 
eyes. 

Elizabeth,  when  she  came  to  the  throne,  was  not 
older  than  five-and-twenty,  and  what  would  now  be 
familiarly  called  "  a  fine  girl."  She  is  thus  described, 
just  before  that  event,  by  the  Venetian  Ambassador  : 

"My  Lady  Elizabeth,  the  daughter  of  Henry  VIII.  and  Ann  Boleyne, 
was  born  in  the  year  1533.  She  is  a  lady  of  great  elegance  both  of  body 
and  mind,  although  her  face  may  rather  be  called  pleasing  than  beautiful; 
she  is  tall  and  well  made ;  her  complexion  fine,  though  rather  sallow  •* 

*  "  Bella  came,  ancorche  olivastra."  But  how  can  a  fine  complexion 
be  thought  "  sallow  V  and  why  should  not  olivastra  mean  "  swarthish, 
olive-colored,"  as  a  good  old  Italian  dictionary  has  itl    We  should  thus 


OF    ENGLAND.  271 

Her  eyes,  but  above  all  iicr  hands,  which  she  takes  care  not  to  conceal, 
are  of  superior  beauty.  In  her  knowledge  of  the  Greek  and  Italian  lan- 
guages she  surpasses  the  Q,ueen.  Her  spirits  and  understanding  are 
admirable,  as  she  has  proved  by  her  conduct  in  the  midst  of  suspicion  and 
danger,  when  she  concealed  her  religion,  and  comported  herself  like  a 
good  Catholic.  She  is  proud  and  dignified  in  her  manners ;  for  though 
her  mother's  condition  is  well  known  to  her,  she  is  also  aware  that  this 
mother  of  hers  was  united  to  the  King  in  wedlock,  with  the  sanction  of 
the  holy  church,  and  the  concurrence  of  the  primate  of  the  realm;  and 
though  misled  with  regard  to  her  religion,  she  is  conscious  of  having  acted 
with  good  faith  :  nor  can  this  latter  circumstance  reflect  upon  her  birth, 
since  she  was  born  in  the  same  faith  with  that  professed  by  the  Queen. 
Her  father's  affection  she  shared  at  least  in  equal  measure  with  her  sister, 
and  the  King  considered  them  equally  in  liis  will,  settling  on  both  of 
them  10,000  scudi  per  annum  Moreover  the  Queen,  though  she  hates 
her  most  sincerely,  yet  treats  her  in  public  with  every  outward  sign  of 
affection  and  regard,  and  never  converses  with  her  but  on  pleasing  and 
agreeable  sul)jects.  She  has  also  contrived  to  ingratiate  herself  with  the 
King  of  Spain,  through  whose  influence  the  QUecn  is  prevented  from 
bastardizing  her,  as  she  certainly  has  it  in  her  power  to  do  by  means  of 
an  act  of  Parliament,  and  which  would  exclude  her  from  the  throne.  It 
is  believed  that,  but  for  this  interference  of  the  King,  the  Queen  would, 
without  remorse,  chastise  her  in  the  severest  manner;  for  whatever  plots 
against  the  Queen  are  discovend,  my  Lady  Elizabeth,  or  some  of  her  peo- 
ple, may  always  be  sure  to  be  mentioned  among  the  persons  concerned  in 
them." 

It  may  be  added,  as  a  matter  not  without  its  interest 
in  the  present  moment,  that  Elizabeth  and  Victoria  are 
the  only  Queens  who  have  come  to  the  throne  young. 
Mary  was  thijty-seven  years  of  age,  and  Anne  thirty- 
eight. 

Anne  was  more  the  daughter  of  her  mother  Anne 
Hyde,  Clarendon's  daughter,  than  of  her  father  James 
the  Second.  In  the  portrait  of  her  sister  Queen  Mary, 
the  wife  of  William  tlie  Third,  you  can  trace  a  like- 
ness to  the  melancholy  countenance  of  James.  Anne 
was  the  daughter  of  her  mother's  joviality,  at  least  as 

recognize  a  clear  brown  complexion,  quite  compatible  with  the  epithet 
"fine." 


272  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

far  as  the  indulgence  of  the  senses  was  concerned, — 
round  and  fat,  and  incHned  by  enjoyment  to  be  good- 
humored  and  indulgent.  She  had  brown  hair  and  a 
fresh  complexion :  in  short,  was  a  regular  Hyde,  with 
the  exception  of  the  pride  and  irritability,  and  perhaps 
the  acuteness  of  that  family ;  and  only  possessing 
enough  of  her  father's  stubbornness,  to  enable  her  to 
turn  round  against  the  excess  of  presumption,  and  res- 
cue herself  from  the  last  consequences  of  a  habit  of 
acquiescence.  Lady  Stafford,  the  wild  daughter  of  a 
wild  father  (Rochester),  talked  of  "  orgies"  in  her  pal- 
ace,— most  likely  an  extravagant  misrepresentation  ; 
but  whatever  the  orgies  amounted  to,  they  must  have 
arisen  from  the  weak  moments  generated  too  often  in 
the  Queen's  latter  years  by  a  habit,  which  it  is  unpleas- 
ant to  allude  to  in  connection  with  a  woman,  and 
which  care  and  temperament,  and  perhaps  her  very 
easiness  of  intercourse,  conspired  to  bring  upon  her. 
Drinkinar  of  some  kind  or  other  is  resorted  to  as  a 
refuge  from  care  in  millions  of  more  instances  than  the 
world  is  aware  of;  and  perhaps,  till  things  right  them- 
selves in  society  to  more  final  purpose,  the  wonder  is, 
that  the  habit,  however  dangerous  and  degrading,  is 
not  still  more  extensive. 

Of  Anne's  early  years  some  curious  accounts  have 
been  left  us  by  the  wife  of  the  great  Duke  of  Marlbo- 
rough,— for  a  long  time  her  imperious  favorite,  if  two 
such  words  can  go  properly  together.  The  truth  is, 
Anne's  heaviness  and  luxuriousness  of  temperament 
made  her  glad  of  a  dictatress,  so  long  as  the  jurisdic- 
tion only  supplied  it  with  what  it  wanted.  It  helped 
out  her  slowness  of  speech,  and  saved  her  a  world  of 
trouble  and  management.  The  Duchess  reigned  in 
this  way  so  long,  that  she  at  length  forgot  she  had  a 


OF    ENGLAND.  273 

queen  for  her  slave  ;  and,  in  spite  of  habit,  good-nature, 
and  fear,  royalty  turned^ound  in  anger,  and  got  rid  of 
its  tyrant  by  dint  of  a  singular  exercise  of  one  of  Anne's 
very  defects, — paucity  of  words.  The  favorite  had 
unfortunately  intimated  in  one  of  her  angry  letters, 
that  she  did  not  want  an  answer  to  a  remonstrance 
made  by  her ;  and  the  Queen,  seizing  hold  of  this  ex- 
pression at  their  final  interview,  kept  repeating  it  to  all 
which  the  Duchess  alleged  : — "  You  desired  no  answer, 
and  you  shall  have  noneJ'  This  doggedness,  in  James 
the  Second's  style,  so  exasperated  the  once  all-powerful 
favorite  (though  it  was  in  reality  nothing  but  a  despe- 
rate refuge  from  want  of  words)  that  she  ventured  to 
threaten  her  Majesty  with  the  consequences  of  her 
"  inhumanity-;"  and  so  they  parted  for  ever.  This  is 
the  whole  real  amount  of  the  matter,  without  its  being 
necessary  to  enter  into  those  would-be.  political  circum- 
stances, which,  in  almost  all  such  cases,  are  only  the 
apparent,  not  real  causes  of  action. 

The  Duchess  in  her  old  age,  with  the  unabated  over- 
weeningness  of  her  character,  gave  the  world  what  she 
called  an  "  Account  of  her  Conduct ;"  purely,  as  she 
said,  to  save  her  fair  fame  after  death ;  but  the  conse- 
quence was,  as  it  always  must  be  when  such  things  are 
written  by  such  persons  (for  their  character  is  sure  to 
break  through  all  disguises),  that  the  world  were  con- 
firmed in  the  opinion,  which  they  entertained  of  hei 
vanity  and  presumption.  There  is  no  doubt,  however, 
that  all  the  facts  we  are  about  to  quote  are  true,  how- 
ever different  were  the  conclusions  they  suggested  to 
the  world,  from  what  the  writer  expected.  And  after 
being  in  possession  of  Anne's  general  character,  we 
feel  that  we  are  here  made  spectators  of  it  at  its  ear- 
liest and  most  candid  period. 

12* 


274  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

"  The  beginning  of  the  Princess's  kindness  for  me,"  says  the  Duchess, 
"had  a  much  earlier  date  than  my  entrilhce  into  her  service.  My  promo- 
tion to  this  honor  was  wholly  owing  to  impressions  she  had  before  re- 
ceived to  my  advantage ;  we  had  used  to  play  together  when  she  was  a 
child,  and  she  even  then  expressed  a  particular  fondness  for  me.  This 
inclination  increased  with  our  years.  I  was  often  at  court,  and  the  Prin- 
cess always  distinguished  me  by  the  pleasure  she  took  to  honor  me  pref- 
erably to  others,  with  her  conversation  and  confidence.  In  all  her  parties 
for  amusement,  I  was  sure,  by  her  choice,  to  be  one ;  and  so  desirous  she 
became  of  having  me  always  near  her,  that,  upon  her  marriage  with  the 
Prince  of  Denmark  in  1683,  it  was,  at  her  own  earnest  request  to  her 
father,  I  was  made  one  of  the  ladies  of  her  bed-chamber. 

"  What  conduced  to  render  me  the  more  agreeable  to  her  in  this  sta- 
tion was,  doubtless,  the  dislike  she  had  conceived  to  most  of  the  other 
persons  about  her ;  and  particularly  to  her  first  lady  of  the  bed-chamber, 
the  Countess  of  Clarendon — a  lady  whose  discourse  and  manner  (though 
the  Princess  thought  they  agreed  very  well  together)  could  not  possibly 
recommend  her  to  so  young  a  mistress,  for  she  looked  like  a  mad  woman 
and  talked  like  a  scholar.  Indeed,  her  Highness's  court  was  throughout 
so  oddly  composed,  that  I  think  it  would  be  making  myself  no  great  com- 
pliment if  I  should  say,  her  choosing  to  spend  more  of  her  time  with  me 
than  with  any  of  her  other  servants,  did  no  discredit  to  her  taste.  Be 
that  as  it  will,  it  is  certain  she  at  length  distinguished  me  by  so  high  a 
place  in  her  favor,  as  perhaps  no  person  ever  arrived  at  a  higher  with 
Queen  or  Princess.  And,  if  from  hence  I  may  draw  any  glory,  it  is,  that 
I  both  obtained  and  held  this  place  without  the  assistance  of  flattery — a 
charm  which,  in  truth,  her  inclination  for  me,  together  with  my  unwearied 
application  to  serve  and  amuse  her,  rendered  needless ;  but  which,  had 
it  been  otherwise,  my  temper  and  turn  of  mind  would  never  have  suf- 
fered me  to  employ. 

"  Youncr  as  I  was  when  I  first  became  this  high  favorite,  I  laid  it  down 
for  a  maxim,  that  flattery  was  falsehood  to  my  trust,  and  ingratitude  to 
my  greatest  friend ;  and  that  I  did  not  deserve  so  much  favor  if  I  could 
not  venture  the  loss  of  it  by  speaking  the  truth,  and  by  preferring  the  real 
interest  of  my  mistress  before  the  pleasing  her  fancy  or  the  sacrificing  to 
her  passion.  From  this  rule  I  never  swerved.  And  though  my  temper 
and  my  notions  in  most  things  were  widely  different  from  those  of  the 
Princess,  yet,  during  a  long  course  of  years,  she  was  so  ftir  from  being 
displeased  with  me  for  openly  speaking  my  sentiments,  that  she  sometimes 
professed  a  desire,  and  even  added  a  command,  that  it  should  always  be 
continued,  promising  never  to  be  offended  at  it,  but  to  love  me  the  better 
for  my  frankness. 

***** 


OF    ENGLAND.  275 

"  Kings  and  princes,  for  the  most  part,  imagine  they  have  a  dignity 
peculiar  to  their  birth  and  station,  which  ought  to  raise  them  above  all 
connection  .of  friendship  with  an  inferior.  Their  passion  is  to  be  admired 
and  feared,  to  have  subjects  awfully  obedient  and  servants  blindly  obse- 
quious to  their  pleasure.  Friendship  is  an  offensive  word :  it  imports  a 
kind  of  equality  between  the  parties — it  suggests  nothing  to  the  mind  of 
crowns  or  thrones,  high  titles,  or  immense  revenues,  fountains  of  honor 
or  fountains  of  riches,  prerogatives  which  the  possessors  would  have 
always  uppermost  in  the  thoughts  of  those  who  are  permitted  to  approach 
them. 

"  The  Princess  had  a  different  taste.  A  friend  was  what  she  most  cov- 
eted; and  for  the  sake  of  friendship  (a  relation  which  she  did  not  disdain 
to  have  with  me)  she  was  fond  even  of  that  equalitij  which  she  thought 
belonged  to  it.  She  grew  uneasy  to  be  treated  by  me  with  the  form  and 
ceremony  due  to  her  rank,  nor  could  she  bear  from  me  the  sound  of  words 
which  implied  in  them  distance  and  superiority.  It  was  this  turn  of 
mind  which  made  her  one  day  propose  to  mc  tiiat,  whenever  I  should 
happen  to  be  absent  from  her,  we  might  in  all  our  letters  wnte  ourselves 
by  feigned  names,  such  as  would  import  nothing  of  distinction  or  rank 
between  us.  Morley  and  Freeman  were  the  names  her  fancy  hit  upon, 
and  she  left  me  to  choose  by  which  of  them  I  would  be  called.  My  frank, 
open  temper  naturally  led  me  to  pitch  upon  Freeman,  and  so  the  Princess 
took  the  other;  and  from  this  time  Mrs.  Morley  and  Mrs.  Freeman  began 
to  converse  as  equals,  made  so  by  affection  and  friendship. 

***** 

"  During  her  father's  whole  reign  she  kept  her  court  as  private  as  she 
could,  consistent  with  her  station.  What  were  the  designs  of  that  un- 
happy prince  everybody  knows.  They  came  soon  to  show  themselves 
undisguised,  and  attempts  were  made  to  draw  his  daughter  into  them. 
The  King,  indeed,  used  no  harshness  with  her.  He  only  discovered  his 
wishes  by  putting  into  her  lianfls  some  books  and  papers,  which  he 
hoped  might  induce  her  to  a  change  of  religion ;  and  had  she  had  any 
inclination  that  way,  the  chaplains  al>out  her  were  such  divines  as  could 
have  said  but  little  in  defence  of  their  own  religion,  or  to  secure  her 
against  the  pretences  of  Popery,  recommended  to  her  by  a  father  and  a 

King. 

***** 

"Upon  the  landing  of  the  Prince  of  Orange,  in  1G88,  the  King  went 
down  to  Salisbury  to  his  army,  and  the  Prince  of  Denmark  with  him ; 
but  the  news  quickly  came  from  thence  that  the  Prince  of  Denmark 
had  left  the  King,  and  was  gone  over  to  the  Prince  of  Orange,  and  that 
the  King  was  coming  back  to  London.  This  put  the  Princess  into  a 
great  fright.     She  sent  for  me,  told  me  her  distress,  and  declared,  tliat 


276  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

rather  than  see  Iter  father  she  would  jump  out  at  window.  This  was  bei 
very  expression. 

"A  little  before  a  note  had  been  left  with  me  to  inform  me  where  I 
might  find  the  Bishop  of  London  (who  in  that  critical  time  absconded), 
if  her  Royal  Highness  should  have  occasion  for  a  friend.  The  Princess, 
on  this  alarm,  immediately  sent  me  to  the  Bishop.  I  acquainted  him 
with  her  resolution  to  leave  the  court,  and  to  put  herself  under  his  care. 
It  was  hereupon  agreed  that,  when  he  had  advised  with  his  friends  in 
the  city,  he  should  come  about  midnight  in  a  hackney-coach  to  the  neigh- 
borhood of  the  Cockpit,  in  order  to  convey  the  Princess  to  some  place 
where  she  might  be  private  and  safe. 

"The  Princess  went  to  bed  at  the  usual  time,  to  prevent  suspicion.  I 
came  to  her  soon  after ;  and  by  the  back-stairs  which  went  down  from 
her  closet,  her  Royal  Highness,  my  Lady  Fitzharding,  and  I,  with  one 
servant,  walked  to  the  coach,  where  we  found  the  Bishop  and  the  Earl 
of  Dorset.  They  conducted  us  that  night  to  the  Bishop's  house  in  the 
city,  and  the  next  day  to  my  Lord  Dorset's,  at  Copt  Hall.  From  thence 
we  went  to  the  Earl  of  Northampton's,  and  from  thence  to  Nottingham, 
where  the  country  gathered  about  the  Princess ;  nor  did  she  think  her- 
self safe  till  she  saw  that  she  was  surrounded  by  the  Prince  of  Orange's 
friends." 

The  Duchess  of  Marlborough's  influence  over  Anne, 
beginning  thus  in  childhood,  lasted  perhaps  for  thirty 
years,  terminating  only  in  the  year  1707,  which  was  the 
forty-third  of  the  Queen's  age.  Doubtless  the  course 
of  time,  and  the  shifting  interests  of  policy,  conspired 
to  render  the  Queen  more  uneasy  under  her  dictation. 
Royalty  naturally  loves  what  inclines  most  to  royalty, 
when  its  apprehensions  of  danger  from  the  Tory  prin- 
ciple are  gone  by ;  and  Anne  did  not  live  in  tinies> 
when  to  side  with  the  propensity  was  as  perilous  as  it 
would  be  now  ;  nor  if  it  had  been,  did  she  possess  brain 
enough  to  discern  it.  Accordingly,  in  proportion  as 
the  Whigs  and  the  Duke  of  Marlborough  ceased  to 
be  necessary  to  her,  the  Duchess's  long  domination 
became  less  endurable,  and  we  have  seen  how  it  termi- 
nated. But  still  the  main  cause  lay  in  the  favorite's 
inability  to  make  those  concessions  to  circumstances, 


O!'    ENGLAND.  277 

while  she  exacted  of  everybody  else.  Anne's  tone  of 
fondness  continued  almost  till  the  moment  of  rupture  ; 
nor  is  it  easy  to  assert,  though  it  is  impossible  to  help 
concluding,  that  the  fear  of  discontinuing  it  was  mixed 
up  with  its  apparent  sincerity.  The  following  are 
specimens  of  the  curious  letters  written  by  "  Mrs. 
Morley,"  from  first  to  last,  which  the  Duchess  gave  to 
the  world : — 

"  Dear  Mrs.  Freeman—  farewell.  I  hope  in  Christ  you  will  never  thmk 
more  of  leaving  mc,  for  I  would  be  sacrificed  to  do  you  the  least  service, 

and  nothing  but  death  can  ever  make  mc  part  with  you." 

*  *  * 

"  I  really  long  to  know  how  my  dear  Mrs.  Freeman  got  home;  and 
now  I  have  this  opportunity  of  writing,  she  must  give  me  leave  to  tell  her, 
if  she  should  ever  be  so  cruel  as  to  leave  her  faithful  Mrs.  Morley,  she 
will  rob  her  of  all  the  joy  and  quiet  of  her  life ;  for  if  that  day  should 
come,  I  could  never  enjoy  a  happy  minute,  and  I  swear  to  you  I  would 
shut  myself  up,  and  never  see  a  creature." 


The  following  is  an  entire  letter  which  appears  to 
have  been  written  in  the  course  of  the  year  in  which 
they  separated : — 

"  Saturday  night. 
"My  dear  Mrs.  Freeman — I  cannot  go  to  bed  without  renewing  a 
request  that  I  have  often  made,  that  you  would  banish  all  unkind  and 
unjust  thoughts  of  your  poor,  unfortunate,  faithful  Morley,  which  I  saw 
by  the  glimpse  I  luul  of  you  yesterday,  you  were  full  of  Indeed,  I  do 
not  deserve  them;  and  if  you  could  see  my  heart,  you  would  find  it  as 
sincere,  as  tender,  and  ns  passionately  fond  of  you  as  ever,  and  as  truly 
sensible  of  your  kindness  in  telling  me  your  mind  freely  upon  all  occasions. 
Nothing  shall  ever  alter  me.  Though  we  have  the  misfortune  to  differ 
in  some  things,  I  will  ever  be  the  same  to  my  dear,  dear  I\Irs.  Freeman, 
who,  I  do  assure  you  once  more,  I  am  more  tenderly  and  sincerely  hers 
than  it  is  possible  ever  to  express." 

But  Mrs.  Freeman  had  discovered  that  her  Majesty 
ventiu'ed  to  hnve    some  regnrd  for  nn  humble  cousin 


278  FEMALE    SOVEREIGNS 

of  hers   (Mrs.  Masham)  as  well  as  for  herself,  which 
she  pronounced,  on  both  sides,  to  be  the  most  ungrate- 
ful and  amazing  enormity  ever  heard  of.     Hence  she 
fell  in  a  rage,  and  the  rage  roused  the  poor  Queen, 
and  so  came  the  catastrophe. 

We  have  now  another  Queen  on  the  throne,  whom 
we  have  hitherto  known  in  youth,  and  youth  only. 
We  know  her  but  publicly  however  ;  we  cannot  be 
said  to  know  anything  of  her  real  character ;  and 
probably  it  is  known  to  very  few,  if  completely  even 
to  those  ;  so  truly  feminine  is  the  retirement  in  which 
she  has  been  brought  up.  If  the  report,  however,  of 
her  mother's  intellectual  and  moral  qualities  be  well 
founded  (and  the  fact  of  that  tranquil  education  says 
much  for  it  in  many  respects),  we  may  hope  that 
England  will  experience  the  advantage  for  the  first 
time,  of  having  a  Queen  brought  up  in  a  mother's 
arms,  and  in  a  manner  at  once  feminine  and  wise.  We 
may,  in  that  case,  look  to  seeing  Womanhood  on  the 
throne  in  its  best  character,  such  as  may  give  life  and 
advancement  to  what  is  best  and  manliest  in  the  hopes 
of  the  world.  But  upon  this  prospect  must  rest,  for 
some  time  at  any  rate,  the  awful  doubt  arising  from 
all  that  is  hitherto  known  of  the  unhappy  chances  of 
royal  spoiling  ;  which  chances,  however,  should  not 
prevent  us  from  hoping  and  thinking  the  best,  as  long 
as  we  are  prepared  for  disappointment,  and  commit 
no  offences  ourselves,  either  of  adulation  or  the  reverse. 
Her  Majesty's  position,  at  all  events,  is  a  very  serious 
one,  both  as  regards  us  and  herself;  and  her  youth, 
her  sex,  her  manifest  sensibility  (whether  for  good  or 
evil),  her  common  nature  as  a  fellow-creature,  and  all 
those  circumstances  which  will  make  her  reign  so 
blest   beyond   example,  if  she  turn  out    well,   and   so 


OF  ENGLAXD.  279 

very  piteous  and  unpopular  if  otherwise,  but  of  which 
neither  she  nor  any  one  else  will,  or  can,  have  been 
responsible  for  the  first  cause  (those  lying  hidden  in 
the  mystery  of  all  things),  combine  to  make  every  re- 
flecting heart  regard  her  with  a  mixture  of  pitying 
tenderness  and  hopeful  respect,  and  cordially  to  pray, 
ihat  it  may  be  consistent  with  the  good  of  mankind, 
and  best  for  it,  whatever  be  their  particular  opinions 
meanwhile,  to  see  her  fair  figure  continually  hovering 
over  the  advancing  orb,  like  the  embodied  angel  of  the 
meaning  of  her  name. 


END    OF    VOL.    I. 


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